


Conflicts of Interest

by Schnozzbun, shpeeper



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Australia, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Real World Locations, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schnozzbun/pseuds/Schnozzbun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shpeeper/pseuds/shpeeper
Summary: Sniper and his parents might not get along all the time, but when he hears word from the BLU Spy that Mann co has put a hit on Mr and Mrs Mundy, it's a race to Australia to see who can get to Sniper's parents first.An AU in which Miss Pauling is sent to dispose of Sniper's parents and somehow, an Australian road trip ensues.
Relationships: Sniper & Demoman (Team Fortress 2), Sniper & Sniper's Parents (Team Fortress 2), Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

Meeting with the Administrator in person was a strange privilege that Miss Pauling rarely got the chance to partake in. Her job, quite frankly, rarely ever required live meetings. There would be a weekly phone call to assign her off-base duties and in exchange, Miss Pauling kept the Administrator up to date on the status of the interior workings of the RED and BLU bases. 

These were quick calls that with time became more and more efficient in their delivery. There was no time wasted with a woman like the Administrator, who was the living definition of obsessive micromanaging. 

Miss Pauling was halfway through burying the bodies of several unrecognizable men when her phone rang, and it wasn’t long after that she hopped onto her scooter and headed towards the middle of nowhere. The Badlands themselves were secluded, but the Administrator’s office was private in every sense of the word; secluded even from new technologies like satellites. 

The office lay far beyond the outskirts of human life, inside the depths of a rocky valley of all places. Nervous energy welled in Pauling’s gut as the metal elevator descended into the earth. 

She pulled out her clipboard, noting to bury the rest of the bodies she had left behind after this short notice meeting with the Administrator was completed. It was just another simple job of burning fingerprints and burying bodies, her normal Tuesday routine. But the Administrator never called Pauling away from her jobs, let alone called her outside of their routine at all. She scribbled down some more notes in an effort to ease her worries on the matter.

The elevator clunked to a stop and released Miss Pauling into the vertically impressive room, wires hanging and technology blipping with life. She didn't think she’d ever get used to the strange sight, but all the same, Miss Pauling knew to wait for the metal bridge to mechanically meet at her quickly tapping heel. 

The door on the other side creaked open with little effort, the lights from the many screens flooded Miss Pauling’s vision when she said, “You called, Administrator?” 

“Yes,” she sighed between the static cracklings of her screens. “Come in. Quickly.” 

Pauling shut the heavy door behind her and stood behind the Administrator, who was currently watching the ongoing match too intently to turn around. She took a long drag of her cigarette before she turned to address her, “Miss Pauling, why is it that we run intensive background checks on the raving lunatics we hire?” 

“To ensure our privacy,” Miss Pauling responded confidently, well adjusted to the Administrator’s use of questioning to arrive at her line of logic. “To ensure we aren’t hiring people that are exposing us or any of our clientele.”    


“Exactly.” The Administrator’s eyes darkened, she clicked a button to play footage on her lower right screen. “Then why might I ask is this man, from the middle of bodunk Australia, talking about how our teleporters work?” 

The Administrator clicked another button and the video plays, revealing a lanky, clearly balding older man explaining the concept of a teleporter to his bartender. Through chatter of the bar, Pauling can hear the man clearly answering questions on the machines, knowing far more on the matter than any common crazed government conspirator. 

Miss Pauling’s eyebrows rose. “He must be related to—” 

“—The RED Sniper. I figured as much,” the Administrator said. “His name is Lachlan Mundy. And the bartender he was talking to is a field agent of mine. It’s hard to know if he talked to any other civilians on the matter.” She bitterly snubbed out her cigarette in an overfilled ashtray. “It’s regrettable, but I’m sending you out to kill the old fool. And his wife too for that matter.” 

Miss Pauling shifted uncomfortably. “Are we certain—” 

“—I am undeniably certain, Miss Pauling,” she interrupted again, sharper this time. “It’s one thing to call home to a bunch of nobodies, and it’s another to give company secrets away to the general public. You know as well as I do what has to be done.” 

“Of course,” she said as the Administrator spun back to her screens.

“You fly out in three days. I’ll have the tickets sent to your quarters.” A click came from her lighter as she lit another cigarette. “You’ll be given a large selection of weaponry for this mission.“ 

The Administrator certainly knew how to bribe her. Miss Pauling hadn’t held a quality rocket launcher in a while, and her old pistol  _ had _ been acting up lately. She smiled slightly. “I appreciate your generosity.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” she huffed, chair still turned to her. “After this trip I’ll also need you to check on some of our equipment in Teufort. Our communication lines haven’t been working properly for sometime.” She rubbed her temples. “Not that I’ve missed hearing every imbecile civilian phone call, but it’s important to keep tabs on that sort of thing I suppose.” 

“Absolutely.” Miss Pauling lifted her pen from writing the instructions in her clipboard. “Anything else?”

“See if there was anyone else the RED Sniper had been talking to. His past calls all go to his old residence, but since the outage we have no way of knowing who else he’s been blabbing company secrets to.” She huffed. “I’d hate to have to kill him. It’s hard work finding such specialized idiots.” The Administrator cringed at the screen as she watched a Soldier get blown to bits. “And while you’re at BLU base tomorrow do something about their Soldier — he’s making a mockery of his team.” 

A final “Yes Administrator,” was all Miss Pauling had left to give before she made her long journey back to the Badlands. She mounted her scooter, secured her helmet, flipped the kickstand, and sped off towards her unfinished job. She sighed and hoped vultures hadn’t found the bodies yet. They were always a pain to chase away and generally unreliable to take care of the whole body themselves.

Believe it or not, Miss Pauling did not consider herself a particularly wicked woman. After all, it was easy to see that there were far worse men out in the world then her. You wouldn’t know it from the way she expertly pointed her pistol, her stance steady like a seasoned killer, the coldness behind her eyes when she pulled the trigger. And like many of the skills Miss Pauling had picked up in her lifetime, she threw her whole being into becoming exceptionally talented. It wouldn’t matter what job Miss Pauling would be tasked with, she would carry it out to the highest degree — any less was simply below her personal standard.

Her job just so happened to be ripping out molars, burying bodies, and ensuring the continued frivolous war for dirt. It never mattered  _ why _ she was carrying out a job, but rather that it was to get done no matter the cost. So for the time being, she would continue to be good at that. 

In this field, there was no use for morals. They would only slow you down, waste precious reaction time on questions of moral ambiguity. But even still, a thought gnawed at the back of Pauling’s head. To kill an evil man was an easy task, one that took little thought and left very little guilt. To kill a man you don’t know was occasionally even easier, ignorance simply blocked any qualms you might still have. These tasks, were again, ones that Miss Pauling had mastered repeatedly. 

But killing an innocent man? Now that was much more troublesome. Killing the loved one of a colleague even more so. She wondered if this old man deserved to die because of loose lips after one beer too many. Certainly, the many men Miss Pauling had taken care of were guilty of far worse crimes than this.

Pauling held her helmet as her scooter sped down the highway, the wind whipping her bangs at the side of her face and her mind finally clearing of all the noise. Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t Miss Pauling’s job to question the Administrator’s orders, her job was to follow them. And like every other job set before her, she was going to execute it perfectly. 


	2. Chapter 2

Everything leaves a trail. That’s why Sniper always made a habit of hiding his.

He was better than any spy, really. It was easy when you had some cloaking doodad that turned you into another person like magic. But there’s an art to being hidden in plain sight.  Be it in some inhospitable landscape or the urban jungle, the same rules apply. It’s stillness, it’s vigilance, it’s wearing the right clothes  that let you fade into the background. Unremarkable, easy to overlook.  And if you needed to hide your face, a hat and a pair of sunnies always did the trick. (Nothing as obvious as a damn sock over your face).  You’d be surprised how easily the rules for hunting game worked for hunting people.

When you’re on a job, an accent like his sticks out in people’s minds, so talking was kept to a minimum. You stayed in the outskirts, did recon at nights, and after all that, you found your vantage point and waited. You could pick out so many details from the top of a hill or a building. Watching people meander through their lives, dutifully following their routines with the predictability of ants following pheromone trails. 

You did your job, you left, and most importantly, you never, ever left any trace that you’d been there. Discretion above all is the motto of any assassin who wants to make sure they wake up to see the morning.

…But  _ surely  _ you could make an exception for your mum and dad, right?

Sniper stood at the phone booth at the side of the freeway leading out of Teufort. It was a bit of a drive, coming all the way out here just after ceasefire, but privacy paid. He wasn’t keen on making personal calls on the phone at RED base, nor at the payphone next to the Teufort dumpster fire.

Making long distance calls was also its own hassle. It was twelve dollars for the first three minutes, plus four more dollars for each consecutive minute. This was in  _ American _ currency, to boot. He reached into his vest and pulled out a small drawstring sack. He tossed it lightly in the air, enjoying its weight. These days, you could just tell the operator to charge it to a card, but honestly, Sniper liked putting in the coins himself. Pushing forty-eight quarters into a metal slot gave a person ample time to think.

_ One, two, three… _

He shifted the hand holding the sack to check his watch — just to be sure. The sun hung low in the sky, glowing orange as it sank below the horizon. Meanwhile, he knew that some eight thousand miles south-west it would be noon in regional Australia. He didn’t have to convert the time in his head because his watch was already set to Australian Eastern Standard. 

He went back to pushing a steady stream of coins into the phone. 

_ …four, five, six… _

It had been a gift from his parents on his seventeenth birthday. Someone who always had his head in the clouds like he did would do well to at least know the time wherever he went, Dad would say. He was always picky about punctuality.  _ Nothing ruder than showing someone they’re not worth your time.  _ Sniper supposed there was some truth in that. In his prior line of work, tardiness in eliminating a mark would certainly get him more than a slap on the wrist.

_ …eleven, twelve, thirteen… _

On starlit nights alone in the bush, keeping out of sight in some foreign city, or ducking under a windowsill to dodge a hail of bullets to protect a briefcase of intelligence — he could always glance down to his left hand and think:

_ Mum’s woken up. _

_ …eighteen… _

_ Dad’s doing the crossword. _

_ …nineteen… _

_ They’ll be fixing dinner by now. _

_ …twenty… _

It was his little portal to home. He could see the routine of his parents play out in his mind’s eye, operating with the same cyclical patterns as the clockwork on his wrist.

_ …twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five… _

He remembered back when he did freelance jobs, in moments when the hours would stretch and you became intimately aware of how long it took for a pot of coffee to convert itself into a full jar of piss, a distracted part of his mind would daydream that the face of his watch hid tiny mechanical versions of his parents and their house, like the moving figures in those fancy Swiss clocks you see in cartoons. Same creaking and mechanical joints. Same stiff, repetitive movements of their flesh-and-blood counterparts. __

_ …thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four… _

He always liked imagining that. It made them feel closer than they really were. Worth the inconvenience of watchless randoms coming up to him asking for the time. He’d gotten used to subtracting the four hours, so he never saw the need to change it.

_ …thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine… _

That’s what the Mundies were, really. Creatures of habit. Working to a schedule, day in and out. He supposed that in this clock-world of his there would be a little clock-Sniper as well. Driving up on his little clock-van to this little clock-phone every week, at the same time, on the same day.

_ …forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven… _

Well, except for today.

_ Forty-eight. _

He reached for the phone and hesitated. After a bit of thought, he put in another sixteen quarters before dialling zero.

“Operator,” said a tinny voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey there. I’m making a long distance call. Area code six-one…” he rattled off the rest of the number.

“We’ll pass you right on, please stay on the line.”

“‘Ta.”

Sniper breathed deeply. The sounds of machines whirring and background chatter of other operators filled his ear as he took one last moment to collect his thoughts. Steel his nerves even. Calling home wasn’t too different to sniping, really. Relax. Control your breathing. And, when the time was right, take the sh—

The line clacked to life as he heard the phone get picked up and his mother’s broad familiar accent speak out of the receiver. 

“Sharon, who is it?” 

“G’day, Mum.”

_ “Micky?  _ You’re calling a day early. Is it news?”

Sniper winced. Just as much as he was a creature of habit, so were his parents. 

“Maybe I just wanted to say hi a day early,” he said, lamely. “There doesn’t always have to be news, y’know.”

“Well, I ask ‘cause it usually means there’s news.”

_ “There’s no news, Mum.” _

Sniper squeezed his eyes shut — that'd come out more harshly than he meant to.

He sighed, tone light. “How’s it going, Mum? What’re you up to?”

“Oh, same-old same-old. I was just listening to some of my programs, Dad’s fixing lunch — got a bit of rain Tuesday.”

Sniper raised his eyebrows. “No shit?”

“No shit at all, love.”

“Good for the station I reckon.”

“Well you know how it is down here. Better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick. You?” 

“About the same. Me mate Demo got some ghost pepper sauce from the mail, and bet Scout seven dollars he couldn’t have a few drops with his breakfast without screwing his face up like a half-sucked mango.”

“The fast fella? How long did he last?”

“Half a second. He sprinted to his room and had to go through an entire slab of soft drink. He’s been bouncing off the walls like a wallaby in heat. Last I checked he was comatose in the middle of the mess hall. Demo was quite pleased with himself. ”

Mrs Mundy’s chuckle crackled over the phone line. Warmly, she said, “Now tell me, does this call have anything to do with being hit with the sudden inspiration to come down and visit?” 

He rolled his eyes. This again. “No Mum, still no plans unfortunately. The contract—”

“Yes, yes I know about the bloody contract, Mick. But there’s always a reason. First it was lack of money—”

“Mum…”

“—then it was lack of time—”

_ “Muuuuum.” _

“—and now you’ve got both! I mean honestly, you haven’t even met Bixby!”

Bixby was one of the puppies that Mum and Dad kept after Sniper’s old Blue Heeler, Pepper, had a litter many years after Sniper had left. He would hear much of Bixby’s exploits over the phone. Learning to come when called, chasing rabbits, herding sheep. As time went on, though, Bixby related anecdotes had dwindled. Being twelve years old now, Sniper imagined the hardest work she did was roll on her back for belly rubs and beg for table scraps.

“I know, Mum. Like I’ve always said, once the contract’s done I’ll pop down, okay? Listen, has the money been wiring alright?”

Mrs Mundy made a disapproving noise. “Yes?”

“Well, what’s stopping youse from coming up here?" There was no accusation in Sniper’s tone. “Plenty of things to do in America. And unlike  _ me, _ you have money and time.” He always countered with this because it was true. And, like clockwork…

“Aw Micky, that would be too much for us… We just couldn’t. You know that.”

Mrs and Mr Mundy had always been resistant to accepting funds from Sniper’s freelancing. They already had their own income from helping out at the sheep-shearing station Mrs Mundy’s brother owned south of Birdsville. But Sniper got the feeling that it was a mixture of stubbornness and disconcertion that his parents weren’t overly enthusiastic about his bank transferrals. Dad was especially obstinate about accepting any ‘blood money.’ 

After many loud and long phone conversations that Sniper could only have afforded due to his time at RED, his parents came to the tenuous compromise of agreeing to retire. However, save for the bare essentials, Sniper’s parents barely spent any of the money he sent them. They never went anywhere, didn’t even try to renovate the house. They just stayed there. Whenever Sniper pressed her about it, she explained it was because they were old-fashioned — they weren’t brought up to be big spenders.

Sniper thought there was a difference between old-fashionedness and just plain stubbornness.

This always happened when they talked about this. No matter how hard he and her pulled in opposite directions, they both stayed in exactly in place.

Locked in stalemate, neither spoke. 

Some creatures of habit, huh.

Sniper rubbed his brow. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

A bit more silence. Mrs Mundy clicked her tongue. “Well, that’s that then. You’ll be wanting to talk with Dad?” He heard her moving the phone off her ear.

“Wait!” he said. “Um.”

Here we go.

“Is this the news then?” Mrs Mundy said.

“Er, still no. More like advice.”

_ “Oh?”  _ her voice welled up with the intrigue only managed by cocking one’s hip and leaning their elbow against the wall. 

Sniper was immensely grateful he was alone in a desert so no one could see him shove his hat over his face.  _ “Not that kind of advice, Mum.” _ He lifted his hat back up. “It’s about a mate.”

“Is it Demo?”

“Not this time. Someone else.”

“Go on then.”

Right. 

He cleared his throat. “Sharon, I need your professional opinion on something.”

“All of my opinions are professional, dear.”

Sniper cracked a grin. This was what he loved about Mum, she was willing to give a crack at any topic. She had a gut instinct, a sort of knack about things that was always right. He’d once lost his glasses and the first place she’d suggested to look was where he’d found them (they were in the RED showers.) Her guesstimate on how long to cook a speared python had been right on the first try (around fourteen minutes.) He’d even asked her opinion on what buildings would provide the best look-out points (he always kept the context vague, but he knew that she knew it was about his freelancing and not his completely real bird-watching hobby.)

He propped up the phone with his shoulder and leant his back against the phone booth. “So, Mum, what do you reckon is the level of professionality when it comes to befriending an, er…”

He searched for the word.  _ Co-worker?  _ Quite the opposite.  _ Colleague?  _ Still not quite right.

“…Competitor?” he tried.

“Hmm, a professional competitor,” she repeated. “This isn’t one of those blue blokes you kill on weekdays is he?

The nature of Sniper’s job was no secret to the Mundies. Dad wanted nothing to do with it, but Mum didn’t mind hearing about this sort of stuff. Thought it was interesting. She carried a certain smugness knowing that she always had the best gossip over everyone in the women’s knitting group, even though they’d think she was completely batshit if she mentioned it.

“…Maybe,” Sniper said.

“Isn’t that a bit strange?” she mumbled. Not getting any response from Sniper, she said: “Well, anyway. Is this a ‘keep your enemies close’ situation?” Her tone was completely candid. 

“Not quite. No ulterior motive here. It’s more of a question of ethics I suppose.”

“Well, has he shaked you down for company secrets yet?”

“He hasn’t been that forward,” he chuckled. “We talk about our jobs, sure, but not really about work.”

She hummed contemplatively. “Would your company like it? The two of you seeing each other after work?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Any plans of stopping?”

“Well that’s why I’m asking,” Sniper said, gesturing as he spoke. Even though they couldn’t see each other, he couldn’t help physically moving. It helped feel like she was there with him. “The guy’s interesting, sure, but after giving it some thought, I’m of two minds on whether he’s worth losing a job over if I’m honest.” 

“What’s he like, then? He a good bloke?”

Sniper looked up as he considered this. Both in how much of a good idea it was to be honest, and in genuine response to the question.

“I reckon he could if he tried to be,” he ventured. “He’s a bit of a snob, really. Used to hate his guts. But after a while we both realised that we had more in common than we’d initially thought. And after going for beers a few times we’re mates now.”

“Huh, just like that?” 

“Believe me when I say I'm the most surprised person in this whole thing.”

It was a casual friendship. Well, as casual as you could get with the bloke you used to legitimately lose sleep over as you plotted ways to get rid of him.

That damn BLU Spy.

Sniper used to hate everything about him. His stupid smell, his stupid snicker, his stupid dress shoes he had no right to be wearing in a battlefield. 

When Sniper freelanced, it was simple. Just you and the target. It required concentration, sure, but you could afford to mentally drift off in the long lapses of time between targets kindly walking into your crosshairs.

Not with the enemy Spy, though. You had to be as sharp as a tack, always on your toes, never quite exhaling. 

Sniper hated it. It took all of the relaxation out of killing people. Honestly.

Anger towards another person could make a man do some twisted things. Like finding creative uses for his own urine, or car batteries — even learning to hand-stitch a doll in his nemesis’s likeness which he would fling in the air after-hours to practice his sharpshooting. 

But after years of the same trash-talk and tricks, Sniper was getting exhausted. I mean, how could you feel so intensely about a bloke you’d never really talked to? Besides, after becoming better friends with the others at RED, the concept of having an arch nemesis was proving not just childish — but unprofessional.

It happened at work. After multiple respawns from both parties, the two sat slumped over and winded in opposite corners of the room. It was in this moment that Sniper realised they were both too wise to the other’s tricks — every parry and feint, every dodge and maneuver. The fun was gone when you knew your opponent’s next attack just as well as he knew yours. This was getting pedantic. The stalemate Sniper found himself in welcomed a lack of judgement which — before Sniper fully realised what words were coming out of his mouth — made him ask his professional competitor whether he wanted to go out for a beer. 

“I know it’d be safer if I stopped, but…”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “Dunno, strikes me as the kind of guy who could use a mate.”

“Well, I’m glad you learned how to make friends. Only took you some forty-odd years. First sheep and dogs, then horses, and now you’ve graduated to blood thirsty mercenaries. I know  _ I’m  _ impressed,” she snickered.

“Gee, thanks.” Despite his words, Sniper laughed too. 

There was a faraway voice from the other end of the line.

Mrs Mundy’s voice was slightly muffled as she turned her voice away from the phone.  _ "It’s Micky, dear.” _

Sniper strained to hear the new voice over the crackly feedback of the line.

_ "That’s what I said—!  _ Micky, I’m passing you onto Dad.”

Sniper readjusted his grip on the phone. He checked his watch to see how much time had passed. The worst thing that could happen was Dad getting cut off in the middle of one of his lectures. Unfortunately, Dad never quite got the gist of the three-minute flat rate system, and it wasn’t like Sniper could leave his parents hanging. It wasn’t just impolite, they’d think the line dropping was him suddenly getting shot, or the phone booth exploding, or something else that wasn’t entirely improbable. This meant Sniper would call back, which meant another earful from Dad that lasted over three-minutes, which resulted in Sniper calling back  _ again.  _ Anyway, Sniper had learned his lesson after coming up seventy-five dollars short that day and ever since he came prepared. He frantically put in sixteen more quarters as he heard the phone be passed to Dad.

“Hey there, Mick,” Dad’s deep husky voice rattled every available frequency of the phone line.

“Hey Dad,” Sniper said, satisfied he’d put in enough currency.

“Things going alright?”

“Yeh.”

“Coming down any time soon?”

“Dunno.”

A pause.

“Right-o then. See you, son.”

“See you, Dad.”

And that was that. 

Muffled noises that sounded like a bag of pebbles being dropped in a lake popped from the receiver. 

“That was… calm,” Sniper said, too stunned to curse himself for putting in so many quarters.

“Yes…” Mrs Mundy trailed off. Sniper thought the line had been cut, when he realised that she waiting for Mr Mundy to leave the room. Voice low, she said, “Your father’s been in a bit of a  _ state  _ this past week."

A cold hand squeezed his gut. He tried to keep his tone even. “What, something medical?”

“Oh, no! No, nothing like that! It was your uncle Wayne’s birthday the other night and, I don’t know. Fear he might be getting a bit, you know…”

He did not. “What?”

“Existential.”

Sniper wasn’t sure how to feel about that. But before he could answer, Mrs Mundy said: “Which is why I really think you should drop down, Micky! We’re not getting any younger!”

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I’ll see if I can talk to the boss, can’t make any promises though.” 

His eyes darted back to his watch.

“Listen, Mum, could I have you on the line for a bit longer?

“Why?”

“’Cause I just put a shit ton of money into the phone by accident and I haven’t heard a good yarn about the knitting club in a while.”

“Oh  _ I  _ see. Trying to wring me out of all of my gossip now, are you? Have I told you about what Eunice’s nephew did at church last week?”

“No, spill it.”

“Okay so—”

The two filled the next two and a half minutes thanks to the expensive magic of long distance communication. His eyes flitted back to his watch. Time was getting dear. He signalled this by clearing his throat.

“Already?” she said. “Ah well. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah. See you, Mum.” Sniper moved to hang the phone, but—

“Mick?” his mother intoned.

He raised the phone back to his ear. “Yes, Mum?”

“I’m serious about this. Dad and I really would like to see you. Think about it?” she said, too hopeful to say no to.

“…Alright, Mum.” 

“Okay. See you, possum.”

Sniper hung up. 

He stowed the coin sack in his vest and stuffed his hands in his pockets, kicking a pebble as he walked towards the van. He knew he wasn’t going to ask ‘the boss’ anything. He’d made the decision in less than a second, and the fact brought him no shortage of shame. 

He drove back to RED base, sinking in his guilt. 

Eyes on the road, he flicked the bobblehead man on the dashboard, hoping the familiar action might bring him some comfort. It didn't.

_ “Piss,” _ he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schnozzbun here - thanks for the great response for the first chapter! We're REALLY excited for this fic, there's a lot coming.
> 
> I did so much research on long distance calls in the 60's. I read a lot of websites about it, but this video was also incredibly essential. Very interesting watch, and also where I got the 12 dollar flat-rate system from: (https://youtu.be/zX8RHeSuZZc?t=240)
> 
> It's no kidding with how expensive long distance calls were back then. To quote an EXTREMELY good quora response, the philosophy at the time was "Anything longer than 3 minutes you may as well get on a plane and go there." (Source: https://www.quora.com/How-was-like-to-make-an-international-phone-call-in-the-60s) 
> 
> 12 USD in the 1960's is roughly equivalent to 84 USD in 2020 (which is equivalent to 125 dollars in AUD, just for perspective)
> 
> Another good resource was this: (https://www.quora.com/How-easy-was-it-to-call-people-in-the-1960s-in-America)
> 
> Also! While I'm here I wanna plug an excellent tf2 fic I've been reading whose fourth chapter actually influenced me enough to rewrite the opening paragraph. It's called Sandstorm and it's by @The_Idonian. It's EXTREMELY well researched, give it some love! https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207073/chapters/25031934


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Sniper got up early and headed to the showers. It would do him good to see the mercs. He made the effort whenever he’d spent the night in his van rather than at base, which he had. Thinking. 

On the way to the showers, he passed Engineer, who yawned “Mornin’, Stretch,” over his coffee mug.

After showering, he changed in the locker rooms and saw Heavy, who wore a towel around his waist and greeted him with a “Sniper” and a nod.

Heading towards the kitchen, Sniper was hailed with a “Mrnimf!” from Pyro as they waved cheerily with one hand and flipped pancakes with the other.

The mercs were used to Sniper not always responding, but this was normal. They knew he didn’t always feel like talking. And when he tilted his hat towards them they knew he meant the same. Nothing oils the wheels of camaraderie better than mutual acknowledgment. Working at RED wasn’t a solo job, you had to work as a team. The relationships you made with these eight individuals you ate, bathed, and bled with were imperative to ensuring you had someone checking your six for wayward bullets or backstabs.

As Sniper entered the armoury to decide what weapons he was bringing in for the day, he jerked to a halt from a clap on the shoulder strong enough to nearly knock his hat off his head.

_ “There you are, ya mongrel!” _ Demo pulled up beside Sniper in a one-armed hug. “We missed you at dinner last night.”

Of course, it wasn’t just cold tactics that were good for developing these relationships. Just being remembered by someone unprompted was its own quiet exaltation.

Sniper smiled slightly, reaching for his rifle. “Yeah nah, wasn’t hungry. Had a lot on my mind.” He gave a Demo a knowing look. “Called home yesterday.” 

If there was anyone who understood overbearing parents, it was Demo. “Och, get an earful?” he said.

“Not this time. Just insisting I come down soon.” Satisfied his rifle was the same as yesterday, he strapped it to his back.

“With these hours? Like hell,” Demo chuckled, peering down the chambers of his grenade launcher. “How many times have you asked them to come up here now?”

“Zillions!” Sniper swung his kukri like it had been designed for the express purpose of emphasising his points rather than chopping off human limbs. “I’ve looked at all those real estate magazines you lent me – thank you by the way—”

“No problem.”

“—but the folks don’t wanna hear any of it! That wasn’t the strange thing though. Dad wasn’t in his lecturing mood. He was oddly, curt. Mum says he might be even getting sentimental.”

“Well, that happens with age.” Demo grunted as he put on the pieces of his anti-explosive armour. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Have yet to see it. I love me mum, but if she keeps goading me into getting more jobs, I’ll purposely rupture my own eardrums. But hey! A bit of sentimentality never hurt anyone. Maybe your da is coming around to the mercenary thing.”

Sniper gave a one-note chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.” 

It had taken time, but it was nice to know he could confide in Demo with this sort of stuff. It hadn’t always been like this.

Small talk used to terrify him. Speaking to a person for the express purpose of filling time felt like a timed sport in which everyone lost. When Sniper freelanced, his sole forms of human interaction took the form of intel drops detailing targets his employers wanted him to kill, watching said target’s head explode half a mile away from a skyscraper window, and calls with his parents.

The initial elevator pitch for this gig was attractive for someone of his background. A salary with  _ that _ many figures, all for staying in the same place for months with a steady conveyer belt of heads to shoot? Easy as.

But in the first weeks at RED, he felt exceptionally ill-prepared for the moments between matches. Once work was done, you cleaned your weapons, fed yourself, did your laundry, bought your supplies in the nearest town — and then what? As you ran out of chores to do it was harder to find excuses to be by yourself, and you eventually had to recognise that you had to live up to the professional you were and interact with your co-workers. But Sniper, the man who’d survived countless inhospitable climates with only a knife, a bottle, and the skin of his teeth,  _ shrank  _ at the thought of talking to his teammates. 

He kept himself in the corners mostly. He was there in terms of presence, but not necessarily in contributing statements. This meant most of the mercs gave him a wide berth, which meant he was often left watching. Whenever he caught glimpses of the other mercs getting all buddy-buddy with each other, he’d look the other way and ignore the strange hollow feeling in his stomach. There was no point being bothered by it. It was a waste of time. He was here to do his job, not make friends.

Sniper showed his face less and less around RED — his dorm at base nearly untouched from when he first arrived — choosing instead to keep his belongings, and himself, in his van as much as possible.

In retrospect, he had apparently been practicing ‘maladaptive avoidance tactics,’ a term he learnt from one of his hippie self-help books he wouldn’t dare let anyone know he read. What the book that may or may not be stuffed under his mattress failed to note however, was that you can’t be socially excluded if you’ve already isolated yourself. After all, professionals don’t have feelings. They have standards.

And that was when Demo started bugging him.

It started with negligible acts of clumsiness that could be forgiven: bumping into each other in hallways, talking a few decibels too loudly even though Sniper was right next to him, or repeatedly spilling Sniper’s (and only Sniper’s) cup during meals while gesturing wildly as he recounted the triumphs of the day’s match.

Sniper would quietly seethe at how slovenly and boisterous the Demoman was. How could anyone be so unsubtle? Sniper’s job required precision and tactical positioning and quick reflexes — and here were his perfectly lined crosshairs being marred by one RED Demoman gallivanting across the field and stealing his kills in an inelegant blaze of glory. All these slights against him, intentional or otherwise, Sniper chose to ignore. He just huffed, pushed his glasses up, and kept moving. 

However, not even the bravest face could feign indifference when Demo decided to test out his explosives right outside his van at two in the morning. That was the final straw.

Sniper had stomped out in his singlet and shorts and gone completely mental.

“What the HELL is your PROBLEM? Day in and day out, you are an absolute NIGHTMARE to deal with—!” 

On and on he went while Demo looked on placidly. When Sniper finally finished, Demo just said: “And how does that make you feel, lad?”

“Really fucking angry! An-and frustrated! And… why are you laughing?”

Demo was buckled over clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking between wheezing guffaws.  _ "Cause you’re full of shit!” _

Sniper stood slack-jawed as Demo remained bent over whooping loudly into the air.

After nearly a minute, Demo gave a wistful sigh. “Aye, that’s rich.” He straightened up and wiped a tear from his eye. “Come on, I have some rum in me room.” Demo walked toward base without checking to see if Sniper would follow. And he didn’t have to, because a few moments later Sniper was sitting with Demo in his storage-room-turned-workshop. 

They chatted over drinks, relating to each other’s sense of professionalism, their experiences in this strange, densely populated country, and of course their parents. All the while Sniper was too groggy to consider the workplace health and safety of sitting amongst open crates of grenades, gunpowder, and alcohol.

As they spoke, it became clear to Sniper that he’d gotten Demo all wrong. The person who he thought was some haphazard, trigger-happy drunkard, was in reality a man with a clear streak of competence and focus he brought to his work. The Demoman loved his job. He was born to do this, he said, so why not be jolly about it? It begged the question though. 

“So, why the hazing then?” Sniper said between sips.

“Like I said, you’re full of shit. _‘Professionals have standards.’"_ He let out a deep snort. “Fuck offffff! You act like some high an’ mighty rogue, but you just donnae know the first thing about talking to people, don’tcha?”

Sniper’s drink went down the wrong pipe. He sputtered, thumping his chest as he coughed.

Demo laughed heartily. “I’m right ain’t I?”

Sniper coughed the last bit of alcohol from his lungs and sat back up, gathering himself. He sniffed indifferently. “Dunno. But what I  _ do _ know is that it’s no reason to wake a bloke up at two in the morning, mate. Have you been trying to get a reaction out of me for months just to prove a point?”

“No, I just get my rocks off to watching  _ professionals _ lose their marbles over a wee bit of fun,” he snickered. 

Sniper rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Well, where I come from there ain’t any real use for all that feel-y, mateship stuff. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but sniping ain’t exactly a team sport. Most of the REDs don’t talk to each other anyway. It’s a non-issue.”

“Sure, sure. Or maybe we just don’t talk to  _ you.”  _ He maintained eye contact and took a long swig from his bottle.

Sniper glared at Demo.

Demo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “All I’m saying is that you wouldnae be so hard to talk to if you weren’t always doing — that.” He gestured his bottle vaguely at Sniper.

Sniper looked at his chest and then back at Demo. “You just pointed to all of me.”

“No, no —  _ that!  _ You donnae hold yourself normal. You  _ loom. _ Shoulders hunched, arms crossed — if I didnae know better I’d think you were a ghost haunting the halls of RED, except they’re usually scary and don’t smell like urine.” (Sniper snuck a surreptitious sniff on his shoulder.) “How do you expect anyone to know you when you’re squirreled away in your van all the time? You, my dear lad, are the very antonym of approachable.” He hiccupped.

Sniper, who  _ was  _ hunched over his seat, uncrossed his arms self-consciously. The guy had a point.

Sniper said, “What do you suggest then?”

That conversation felt like ages ago. Since then, Demo had helped ease Sniper into the art of conversation. As someone who had spent eight of his formative years in an orphanage, Demo knew a thing or two about getting in people’s good books quickly. He insisted if Sniper had been enrolled in the Crypt Grammar School for Orphans, he would have had the lights kicked out of him if he weren’t so bloody tall. 

It turned out, much to Sniper’s surprise, that a lot of this small-talk stuff was just asking the right questions. Every mercenary had their quirks, but there were broad overlaps when it came to discussing weaponry and prior work. Then it was just listening, which Sniper could do. With time, he found that he got on well with all of the mercs actually. The pep-talks Sniper gave to himself in the mirror in his van to work up the nerve to  _ just — bloody — talk to them  _ dwindled, and gradually, Sniper transitioned most of his belongings to RED base, to the point where Sniper only hung out in the van if he needed some odd object from storage or wanted some time to himself, as he sometimes still did.

A little part of himself was proud at how far he’d come. He felt like a different man from the alien observer that used to slink around RED with his hands in his pockets. While he knew he’d never quite be able to look people in the eye, at least he could hold a conversation. Baby steps.

Meanwhile, the relationship that had truly flourished was his and Demo’s. Through Demo’s nudges and prods to get him out of his shell, the two had become thick as thieves. Demo was the person he sat next to during meals, the guy he muttered jokes to in the middle of tactical briefings — he couldn’t ask for a better mate.

“Will I be seeing much of you today, or are you going to spend the whole match nesting those jars of yours?” Demo elbowed Sniper, knocking him out of his mental haze. 

Sniper and Demo were suited up with the rest of RED, waiting for the doors to open a before the match started.

"Big talk coming from a one-eyed drunkard." Sniper grinned, elbowing him back. "Tell me if respawn treats ya any better on the tenth time around." 

“Oh sure. You’re tucked away all safe an’ sound in that silver sniper-tower of yours. No offense, but I could hold that rifle of yours no problem. What with having the one eye closed all the time.” He brought the crosshair of his grenade launcher to his eye.  _ “Ka-boom. _ Headshot.”

“That’s not how you say it!”

“It is now. I improved it.”

_ “Mission begins in thirty seconds,”  _ the Administrator’s refined tone filled their ears.

An air of electric excitement spread through the REDs, giving final whoops and battle cries before the start of the match. They all did their pre-match rituals: Soldier and Heavy amped each other up in their game of who could yell the loudest the longest, Scout and Engie were continuing some argument about cowboys and patriots, and Pyro was showing off a new set of kitten stickers they’d added to their flamethrower to a chuckling Medic and amused Spy.

_ “Let’s do it, laddies!”  _ Demo cheered.

Sniper pushed up his glasses and readied his rifle. He instinctively went to look at his watch but stopped. 

No, he wasn’t thinking about that now. He shook any thoughts of yesterday out of his head. He grounded himself in the present. He was here, he was now.  _ Focus. _

He looked around the room of buffoons. They were all kooks — him, Demo, all of them. And Sniper wouldn’t miss it for the world. Despite the occasional arguments and scraps between team members, there was something utopic about this job. RED felt like a second chance. Even if you’d screwed up in the past, you could still make something out of yourself here. It wasn’t too late.

_ “Ten seconds,”  _ the Administrator’s voice echoed.

It wasn’t too late.

* * *

A gunshot cracked the air as the BLU Scout’s head exploded in a spray of red.

Sniper pumped the metal handle of his rifle to discard the empty cartridge and tisked as he fed a new bullet into the chamber. “Gonna have to move quicker than that, twinkle-toes,” he muttered as he looked down the scope.

He kept a close eye on the control point, making sure no BLUs were trying to rush in with an early push. After last week’s disaster, RED had come up with a plan which involved keeping Sniper at the second point to get any stragglers. The landscape was eerily quiet with anticipation. Only five or so minutes into the match and anything could happen. One had to be sharp, vigilant—

A floorboard creaked behind him.

“G’morning, Spook. You’re up early.”

Sniper spun and grabbed the Spy’s arm, the raised knife it held poised in the air. 

Builders League United’s very own Spy stood before him, pinstripes and all, looking as dry-cleaned and dignified as ever even in the middle of trying to kill him.

The two were locked in a standstill, Spy pushing the knife down as Sniper’s arm burned trying to keep the blade in the air and not plunged into his shoulder.

Sniper immediately felt something was off. Usually Spy would have some snappy witticism about his bad aim or his horse face or something, but, nothing. Spy was just… glaring at him? Studying him? 

And there was something else. Something about this whole situation felt deeply not possible. Why was that? 

Shoving the feeling away, Sniper said. “Y’know, it’s usually polite to say ‘g’day’ back.” 

There was a shift in Spy’s eyes, like he’d remembered something. Whatever it was, it involved stomping Sniper’s foot. 

Sniper cried out. His grip faltered enough for Spy to get free of Sniper’s grasp and jump back. 

“Sniper, there’s something we need to discuss,” Spy said.

Sniper dropped his rifle. “What, your manners?” Sniper reached for his kukri. He released a tiny exhale of relief as his fingers touched the handle. Too many times the Spook would get close just to disarm him and throw his weapons out the window. 

“Well, you’ve done quite well without them.” Spy twirled the butterfly knife between his fingers, reading his stance.

“Well at least I don’t stab people in the back.” 

“At least I don’t urinate in jars.”

The fact that Spy hadn’t disarmed him could only mean one thing. 

“Hmph.” Sniper drew his kukri.

_The Spy must be itching for a fight._

Sniper spun his kukri in his hand and pointed it at his opponent. “Toosh.”

Spy’s face froze, then plummeted. “...Touché. It’s  _ touché, _ Sniper.”

Sniper scratched his chin, pretending to be confused. “Y’sure? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced toosh.”

“Your idiocy is awe-inspiring.”

And so the dance began. There was a rehearsed aspect to it, due to its repetition over months and years. But with it also came a comfortable familiarity. An exercise in distance and making sure the other was fully paying attention. Every strike, every slice, every sudden jab — it was all part of the conversation. Challenging the other by asking:  _ You think you know me that well? Well how about  _ this? 

It was essentially keep-away with knives. Nonetheless, Sniper had to admit that there was nothing like the adrenaline rush you got for premium working at this job. Death meant nothing. It was you against yourself as much as it was against BLU, the enriching challenge of how you could be quicker, sharper, stronger. The fact that Spy didn’t kill him right away these days meant that he must enjoy the thrill too. 

Sniper’s mind itched. Something about the train of thought left him confused. What was it? It was like trying to grab something from a high shelf, grasping air but knowing it was just out of reach.

Sniper swung in a wide arc, keeping Spy at a distance. If there was one good thing Sniper’s gangly limbs gave him, it was reach. With moves like an eel, Spy leant out of Sniper’s strikes.

“You know, that was really unprofessional of you.” Sniper’s blade sang as it sliced air instead of blue silk.

Spy glowered as he rocked back and forth on his feet. “What was?” he said.

“Coming up here with your shoes untied.”

Spy’s eyes darted down automatically to realise that no, his loafers were not untied. In fact, they had not even manifested laces. Sniper drank up Spy’s facial journey of horror, to confusion, to realising he’d been duped by the oldest schoolyard trick of  _ made-you-look, _ into a narrowed eyed expression that wordlessly screamed  _ they don’t pay me enough to kill you  _ as he rushed towards Sniper, knife pointed with intent.

But what were friends for? 

The first time Sniper and Spy had officially met outside of work had been a little over a month ago. Sniper had invited Spy to meet at the only bar in Teufort at seven. The Teufortians were always filing complaints to RED and BLU about their mercenaries causing a ruckus in town. And after enough reports of rival mercs beating each other up in parking lots or the cereal aisle of supermarkets, both companies made it clear that Teufort was officially neutral territory, and no weapons were allowed on their person while they were in town.

Sniper hoped that Spy remembered that part of the agreement, for Sniper’s sake.

Sniper entered the bar, hat in the van, but still wearing his work shirt. He scanned the room, seeing no one of interest save for the bartender and a few lonely souls drinking their worries. The lighting was low and flickering, the jukebox in the corner playing some dusty pop tune he couldn’t place.

He checked his watch. He  _ was  _ technically a minute early. 

He strode across the off-colour carpeting, took a seat at the bar, and waited. After fifteen minutes he ordered a beer. He spent another fifteen feeling prickles of doubt burrow into his brain like termites. He tapped the counter with his finger, thinking about how stupid this idea was and how he was wasting his time. After ten more minutes, he washed his brain clean of all those pesky conclusions with another beer.

A bit sloshed, Sniper heard a cough behind him.

He turned in his barstool and saw Spy in his signature blue attire, brandishing the same sleek put-together-ness he always carried on the battlefield. Sniper’s instincts instantly kicked into fight or flight. He fought the lizard-brain compulsion of grabbing the nearest object and smashing Spy’s head in. Old habits. It was strange to meet what was essentially his nemesis on neutral ground like this. Strange, but also vaguely thrilling.

Hands in his pockets, concealing any manner of weapon Spy would usually be more than happy to plunge into Sniper’s back, he said. “So, Bushman. What is it you want, then? Money? Company secrets?”

“I mean… are those on the table?” Sniper said.

“No.”

“Ah, bugger.” Sniper smacked the counter. “Alright, well, off you go then.” He gently shooed Spy and turned his back.

Spy didn’t move. His eye likely twitched.

Sniper glanced behind him. “That was a joke, mate. I was joking. C’mon, siddown.” Sniper gestured to the seat next to him.

Very slowly — eyes  _ daring  _ Sniper to make another joke — Spy pulled out a stool and sat next to Sniper.

“So, how’ve you been?” Sniper said before he raised a hand to catch the bar tender’s attention, who was currently speaking to another patron. He hoped Spy had noticed he hadn’t made the very easy barb about Spy being late.

Spy rested the bottom of his face on the back of his hands, which would have made him seem relaxed if his back wasn’t tensely hunched in the shape of a horseshoe. He said nothing.

“This is a great start,” Sniper said.

“Sniper, you will have to forgive me,” Spy said in a voice that reflected complete disinterest on the subject of his absolution, “but the circumstances of this meeting haven’t filled me with the confidence that this isn’t some sort of complex trap.”

“Fair,” Sniper said. “I was being serious though”

“About what?”

“This might be the first conversation where you haven’t insulted me outright yet.”

“That can change.”

The bartender came over.

“’Nother beer, please,” Sniper said.

Spy eyed the labels of the two empty bottles that were already sitting next to Sniper. “Brandy,” he said.

The two waited for their drinks in silence, watched them be poured in silence, and drank in silence. The air was tense. A RED and a BLU walking into a bar sounded like the set-up for some violent joke, not whatever this was. Sniper saw himself, sitting in this moment. He imagined what would happen if one of his teammates walked in right now. The image weighed on him. He knew the risks. He’d read the very large, very bold section in his contract:  _ NO FRATERNISING WITH ANY INDIVIDUALS UNDER THE EMPLOY OF BLU AND ITS SUBSIDIARIES UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. _ And yet… 

Sniper had to admit that there was something that intrigued him about Spy. So much time spent, maybe even wasted, at each other’s throats. This was likely incredibly stupid, but spending time with Demo and the rest of RED had done Sniper good, great even. The difference he felt in himself as a person just by knowing he had people who gave a shit about him and didn’t expect him to be anything more than what he already was — it was remarkable. But, there was also something to be said about how, from the beginning, it was the BLU Spy who for a long time used to be the person he spoke to the most, even if it was through trading insults. He’d been spending the last few days contemplating not just the similarities of their jobs, but maybe even their positions in life.

Call it a hunch, but maybe there was a mote of kinship there that could be kindled into something. 

Silence thick, Spy made no move to speak. His demeanour and expression very clearly said the same thing:  _ Tell me why I’m here, now. _

“Spy, I don’t know you very well,” Sniper said. “And, that’s why I wanted us to meet here.”

Spy went very still, face darkening. He sighed as he leant forward on the counter, rubbing his face.  _ “Fils de pute,” _ he muttered.

Spy sat back up and looked at Sniper. “So, it’s an interrogation then.”

Sniper opened his mouth, but no words came out. The absolute certainty with which Spy spoke was disarming. “Uh—“

“You invited me here because you didn’t wish to cause a scene.” Spy reached into his coat. “Not because of social mores about decorum, but because of the neutrality rules. If we fought, the residents would complain, our employers would be notified, and it would be  _ très gênant  _ for both of us.” 

He pulled out his cigarette case. He spoke languidly, like he was being forced to recite a tax return and was bored already. “Next, you will tell me I can’t leave, because the rest of your RED brethren are waiting outside.” 

He whipped open the case, pulling out a cigarette. “Thus, the only choice I’m left with is to be very graciously moved to a location outside of Teufort, so if I didn’t tell you what you wished to hear now, you could ask me questions there in a more persuasive manner.”

Spy exchanged his case for his lighter, lit his cigarette and took a drag. He breathed out, continuing: “And finally, they used you specifically as bait due to our pre-established relationship of proverbial pissing contests.” There was a little impressed quirk to his mouth as he put away the case. “I have to say, it’s not bad. Certainly not great, and very obviously a trap, but not bad. Whoever masterminded this whole thing must have had at least a few neurons rattling around in his skull, so I know for a fact it wasn’t you.”

Spy shrugged. “Regardless. You are out of luck. Because no matter how hard you and your men beat me, I will not give you the satisfaction of a single peep. So, if you do wish to hurt me, know that it will be a wasteful endeavour, as I have been through things that you could not even begin to contemplate. So, go right ahead, Bushman. Do your worst.” Smoke curled through his grinning teeth, Spy’s face cast half in shadow from the light at the tip of his cigarette. It was an unnerving image, to see a man recite his ambiguous but no doubt violent fate with a sharkish smile. The mystique evaporated quickly however as Spy registered Sniper’s expression. 

Sniper’s glasses tipped down his nose — nearly falling off — their absence revealing his wide-eyed, open-mouthed confusion. “What? No—  _ What?  _ Spy, we’re off the clock.” 

Spy furrowed his brow. “...You can stop lying.”

“Spy,  _ I’m not lying. _ That’s work stuff. We just had work today. Do you think we’re so bloody keen on the nine-to-five that we wanted to do some unpaid overtime, are you kidding?”

Spy’s mouth went slack, no dignity in the way the cigarette hung limply from his mouth. His face twisted into an angry mask of hate. Spy raised his arms like he was about to grab Sniper, but stopped as he realised where he was. His face fell. He looked at the ceiling with a theatrical sigh, plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into Sniper’s beer. It splashed and went out in a tiny hiss.

Spy turned to his own drink.  _ “You made me look foolish on purpose.” _

Sniper looked at the new floatie in his beer mournfully, then looked back at Spy. “You were kinda on a roll. Might’ve been rude to interrupt.”

Spy dragged his hands down his face and exhaled deeply. “Bushman, what is this? If you’re not after money, I am at an extreme loss as to what it is you’ve called me for.”

Sniper stretched his arms behind his back with a grunt. “Well, it’s quite simple.” He leant his elbow on the counter conversationally. “We’ve killed each other a lot, we’ve hated each other a lot, we’ve taken plenty of cheap shots at each other —  _ you more than me," _ he muttered. Spy rolled his eyes. Sniper continued, “But, at the end of the day, I reckon we have a lot more in common than we initially thought.” Sniper gulped, steeling himself for the next part. “Which is why, I think, I’d  _ like to get to know you better," _ he said the last part quickly.

A beat.

Spy said, “Pardon?”

Sniper slumped in his seat. Did he really have to say it again? “I want to get to know you better. You know, learn about each other, just, talk.”

Spy raised a finger, about to speak, stopped, then started again. “You… invited a member of the enemy team over for drinks because you are that desperate for attention?” 

“No, I called you here because I wanted to talk to _you._ I mean, there’s plenty to shoot the shit about, we’re not that different.”

“Ah, I see. So this is not an interrogation, nor a trap,  _ it’s a migraine.”  _ Spy rubbed his temple.

“I’m not being that outrageous by pointing out our similarities, am I?” Sniper snapped, feeling defensive. He listed with his fingers: “Our jobs are precision elimination, we were both hitmen before our contracts at RED and BLU, our Medics  _ never  _ über us—”

“Firstly, my prior work was much more layered and complex than being a simple  _ hitman,  _ Sniper.”

“See! That’s exactly what I mean. I don’t know these things! And the only way I can find out about 'em is by asking you.”

Spy shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “To what end?”

Sniper paused. “Do you know what a sunk cost fallacy is?”

“I speak seven more languages than you, and you can’t even speak the one you do properly. Yes, I know what it is.”

“Well, you’re my sunk cost. I’ve decided I’ve spent too much time obsessing over how to kill you, and I’m sick of it. Bored even. I want to feel like I haven’t wasted all of my time and can make something productive out of this. Bury the hatchet, so to speak.”

Spy tilted his head, eyes squinting in scrutiny. “Is this your very elaborate way of trying to get me to go easy on you in battle?”

“No.”

_ “Are you struggling, Sniper? Are you reaching out because you are struggling?” _

“No! God! Spy—” Sniper closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Getting angry would be antithetical to his point. “Look, kick my arse all you want at work, I don’t care. None of that has to change—”

“So you admit you are struggling,” Spy said to his drink.

_ "Spy.” _

_ "Sniper," _ Spy mimicked Sniper’s tone. He turned to Sniper, all business. “Besides this, what shall we call it, cultural exchange you are proposing being little more than a masochistic way to give each other free ammunition to psychologically torture one another, you are asking me to ‘bury the hatchet’ over  _ years  _ of your unrefined dialect, your barbaric smell, and your…  _ jarate nonsense," _ he grated.

Sniper tried to ignore the second comment in recent memory about his smell. “All I’m saying, is that if I can get over your fucking war crime of a doodad dead ringer, anything is possible. So.” 

Sniper turned in his seat so he was facing Spy with his whole body. 

“Let’s start again.” He held out his hand for a handshake. “Sniper,” he said.

Spy looked at the extended hand, then at Sniper. He chuckled without moving his face. “Bushman, with all due respect. I don’t know what kind of mental crisis you are going through, but what I do know is I want no part in it. Goodbye.”

Spy stood up and headed towards the door.

Sniper remained in place. He moved his still extended hand to the back of his head, suddenly quite aware of the bartender standing nearby and the amount of people in the room. 

What was he doing here? This was a stupid idea. Acting like some wide-eyed puppy in a picturebook, thinking everyone wanted to be his friend. Pathetic. 

“Fine,” Sniper called, turning back to his drink. “Go back to your BLU mates and talk about how stupid I am then.  _ There’s _ your free ammunition, see if I care.” He leant his cheek against his fist and scowled as he flicked the beer with the floating cigarette with his thumb and forefinger.

He waited to hear the door open and shut. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spy sit back down next to him.

Sniper lifted his head. “Oh wow, pity worked?”

_ “Shut up. Fine  _ — we may talk.”

Since then, Sniper was optimistic about the way their friendship was going. They’d met a handful of times after work in the no-man’s land between RED and BLU territory. Mostly drinking in silence, Sniper did most of the talking, which wasn't always easy for him. But the upside was Spy didn’t walk away or kill him, so that was a tremendous step. 

Sniper couldn’t say the same about work. He’d learnt that the hard way. This was solidified that one time, a week after their initial chat, Spy arrived at one of Sniper’s nests and saw him pouring coffee out of a thermos into two mugs.

“Oh hey, Spook.” He raised a mug. “Cuppa?” 

Spy shot the mug out of Sniper’s hand and then shot him in the forehead. 

Baby steps.

But that was then. Right now, Sniper was trying to focus on the same BLU Spy who suddenly feinted left, raised his knife, and—

Sniper grunted as a slice of pain screamed at his side. 

_ “You’re going easy on me, stop it,”  _ Spy hissed. 

Spy hadn’t sunk the blade into Sniper’s gut, he’d sliced horizontally, leaving an arc of flecked blood on the floor.

What was Sniper doing, getting distracted like that? The prickling in his mind grew more irritating. Something wasn’t right about this.

Sniper brought his hand to his side. The cut felt superficial, only slicing flesh. 

Sniper said, “You’re the one going easy, try hitting a vital next time.” 

He stepped back and kicked Spy’s chest. 

Spy stumbled back with the kick, wincing. He moved to Sniper’s side — to get a jab at him, Sniper thought — but he was ready.

Sniper stepped to face Spy and meet him with the thrust of his kukri. 

Spy grinned. 

_ Bugger, _ Sniper thought. That was never good.

Sniper’s hands flinched as a hot flash of pain seared across his fingers. The kukri clattered to the floor. Sniper instinctively cradled his bleeding fingers. 

Spy’s knife pulled back, the blade’s edge slick with red. He kicked the kukri behind him. They heard it rattle down the stairs leading out of the wooden hideaway. 

“Obvious as always, Bushman,” Spy said. “You would do well to learn some subtlety.”

Sniper cursed himself internally. You could never strike Spy first. You always had to let him think he was in control. Sniper continued to hold his hand, trying to make himself look small. “Yeah? I guess you’ll have to teach me sometime.”

Spy scoffed. “Teach you? I’d have better luck teaching an armadillo the tarantella.”

Spy rushed towards Sniper. Sniper stood his ground, eyes locked on Spy’s knife.

_ Wait for it. _

As quick as a viper, Sniper grabbed both of Spy’s arms, using Spy’s momentum against him as Sniper flung Spy over his back. Spy yelped in shock, lost his grip on his knife in midair, and slammed onto the ground. The wooden boards rattled against the foundations. Spy’s knife skittered across the room.

The two stood still for a moment, panting. Spy glaring at Sniper, Sniper looking down at Spy. 

Sniper broke out chuckling. He tried to smother his grin into his fist but failed. Spy frowned. 

“Sorry, I’m just... You always look so bloody serious. Come here,” Sniper extended his uninjured hand. “You really do look like a cornered cat someti—”

Spy kicked Sniper’s legs from under him. Sniper's head smacked hard against the floor. Some empty jars sitting on crates fell off their perch and rolled next to him. Sniper hissed in pain, rubbing the back of his head.

Spy got to his feet, walked towards Sniper and lifted him up by the collar. “No games today, Sniper," Spy said. “This is—”

Sniper smashed an empty jarate jar to the side of Spy’s head.

Spy staggered backwards, bent over as he clutched his face and groaned angrily.

Sniper shook his head. “I really thought we were past tricks, Spook,” he said with the disappointment of an owner talking to a dog who’d shat on the carpet again. “If you don’t wanna fight with honour then I won’t either, it goes both ways."

Spy lowered his hands. The right side of his face was peppered with bleeding shards of glass that cut through his skin and the fabric of his mask. He growled, “I was  _ trying  _ to show you some courtesy.”

“Spy, you wouldn’t know courtesy if it shot you between the— wait, WAIT!”

Much like seeing a cat suddenly turn into a tiger, in an action that was the very inverse of subtlety, Spy got low and ran towards him. He rammed into Sniper's abdomen, shoved Sniper across the room, and with a strong heave pushed Sniper down the wooden stairs leading out of the nest.

Funnily enough, as Sniper felt time slow, his arms cartwheeling wildly, seeing Spy get smaller and smaller — he realised what had been bugging him earlier.

_ The floorboard. _ It was the  _ fucking floorboard. _

Sniper’s head and back hit the stairs first, the rest of his body followed in a syncopated beat of bones and limbs against sharp edges of wood.

_ SLAM. _

He finally landed at the bottom with a solid thud. Sniper moaned. His hat was gone and his glasses were askew. He went to fix them up, and realised his arms didn’t want to move any more. In fact, nothing beneath his neck was taking calls at the moment.

He heard footsteps slowly coming down the stairs. 

Rather than feel the sharp fear of a cornered animal, Sniper wheezed with laughter. 

The floorboard! Spy knew every panel of wood in the RED territory better than some of the RED mercs themselves, especially the ones that creaked. And Spy never let himself be heard unless he wanted to. So, if Spy had stepped on a floorboard that creaked, that meant he must have done it on purpose.

As for how Sniper knew it was Spy who entered the room and not any other BLU mercenary (it could have easily been the BLU team’s very aggressive Sniper), he didn’t know. He just  _ knew  _ it was Spook. He couldn’t explain it, he just knew. 

Did Spy know he’d know? ‘Cause, if Spy knew he’d know it was him, did Spy think that Sniper would know that he knew? His mind felt like it was plummeting down a series of infinite doorways. The kind where you held two mirrors towards each other and saw yourself falling into a reflective infinity. 

Despite that, he felt calm, airy, easy. Nothing was wrong at all. In fact, he was happy. Ecstatic actually. He’d figured it out! All by himself. He felt so happy he felt the need to share.

“Oi, Spook! You  _ blighter,”  _ Sniper cackled. “You _ wanted  _ me to hear you come into the room, didn’t’cha?  _ That’s _ what that was all about. Well, I’m all ears now, mate!” Sniper said, concussed.

His laughter was cut short as his trachea was squeezed shut by the crook of Spy’s elbow.

“Shut up, shut up, oh my god, shut up!” Spy said rapidly, holding Sniper down. “Stop talking and  _ listen to me.” _

Sniper would have loved to respond, but his vision was starting to go splotchy. He tried to gasp but no noise came out.

Spy leaned close, too close, and whispered into Sniper’s ear. “Meet me tonight at the telephone booth six kilometers south of Teufort. Nine o’clock. You must  _ not  _ be seen. This is of utmost importance, do you understand?”

Sniper nodded vaguely, trying to pry Spy’s arm off his neck, but the way his arms were squashed beneath him and the fact they weren’t responding anyway made it impossible. He hated dying like this. He hated it he hated it he hated it he hated it he heard the flickering click of a butterfly knife and his vision went black. 

Sniper jerked awake in respawn. He gasped, coughing as he rubbed his throat and felt the lingering psychosomatic burning around his windpipe.

_ That over-dramatic galah.  _ Sniper grimaced.

He left respawn and ran back to his nest. He exhaled. The BLUs were still being held back at the first point.

There was no trace of Spy. 

The rest of the match went as normal, but the sinking feeling in his gut got deeper and deeper, like an expanding chasm leading to something dark and murky. 

While he knew now that Spy had wanted Sniper to turn around and see him, that presented another question. 

Why?

Why did Spy want Sniper to turn around first? What did Spy have to tell him that was so important? 

And how did Spy know about the specific telephone booth he used to call his parents?

Answering one question made half a dozen take its place.

Spy left Sniper alone for the rest of the day. His roundabout way of apologising, maybe. 

That fact alone unsettled Sniper for the rest of the match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Schnozzbun again. Firstly, some notes on Australianisms:
> 
> [1] Singlet: Basically, it's what we call tank tops for dudes. Apparently people in the US call them wifebeaters and all I have to say is, Americans.... y'all good?
> 
> [2] Mateship: There's this weird thing in Australia where it's seen as kind of effeminate for men to call their guy pals 'friends,' so of course you call them 'mates.' And through that line of logic, 'friendship' is changed to 'mateship.' It's a phrase that crops up in surprisingly formal contexts, usually when talking about the values of male sports stars or soldiers. Think of it as a no-homo way of saying 'camaraderie.' Shpeeper insisted I clarify this cause to a non-australian apparently the word sounds like, and I quote: "a tag you'd put on a alpha/omega trash fic."
> 
> Finally,,, it is done. BIG update for y'all, and that's right, we said Demo rights. Hope you enjoyed! MAJOR kudos to shpeeper for her help, could NOT in a million years have made it this far without her insights. Next chapter will be written by her so get PUMPED for that!


	4. Chapter 4

Spy was thorough and cold-blooded in everything he did; he simply had to be. In his line of work it was not uncommon to accumulate enemies, and by virtue of this fact Spy quickly got very good at covering his tracks. You couldn’t track a man that never left a trace, couldn’t see the fleeting glimpses you swore haunted you, and couldn’t grasp the specter as his knife dug into your back. Only on the ground looking up could you see the ghost’s face in the light of his cigarette, but by then it would be far too late. 

“Spook,” the nickname the RED Sniper had assigned to him, could almost be seen as a compliment if the friendliness of it didn’t grate him so. Spy hadn’t corrected him during their outings however, and instead focused his energy into showing Sniper just how haunting he could really be. Spy enjoyed the hunt, catching the gleam of sunlight off of Sniper’s gun from the corner of his eye, sneaking through shadows towards his intended target, the ghoulish pleasure of another successful kill heralded by the satisfying sink of his knife into Sniper’s back. This priority of attention towards the RED Sniper was once brought up by the BLU Medic, to which Spy swiftly brushed the matter aside along with the rest of the common rubbish his teammates often offered him. 

When left alone, Spy would reflect on his newfound weekly correspondence with the RED Sniper. The breaking of contract because of these meetings was never an obstacle for Spy, he was too clever for real consequences. He could always find ways to slip out of any trouble he found himself in. He had no ties of loyalty to his own team as he found them rather dense and unable to follow the simplest instructions when he rarely gave them. Spy decided he would keep to himself until the rest of the team came to their senses and realized he was right about every little thing they bickered about. He would continue to protect himself from the rampant disease of idiocy that found itself common on base. 

Every night Spy slept in his silk sheets and heard the rest of his teammates laugh through the walls, and every night wished for his room to be more soundproof. 

Despite his aversion to others, Spy continued to meet the enemy Sniper. Quick to justify why, Spy finally settled on the possible advantage he would have over Sniper during their work hours. Upon their first meeting back at the bar, Spy found himself surprised at how composed Sniper was, as the BLU team’s Sniper was quite reminiscent of a deranged scavenger animal. These rare strings of complimentary thoughts towards the RED Sniper would be snipped as soon as they unwound. For now, he intended to watch the Sniper, keep him at an arm’s distance, and use every crumb of information to his advantage later. An adversary was something to be studied, picked apart, and understood. It didn’t matter if it was words or blades. Every fight, every conversation they engaged in was crucial knowledge to be weaponised.

This was the only logical reason for their continued rendezvous. Why else would the RED Sniper continue their meetings if not for some rudimentary espionage on Spy or BLU? Spy would not just allow himself to be taken advantage of. Completely in his element, Spy tapped into every information resource available to him, convinced that there was more than met the eye to this bushman.

Unfortunately, any ill will the Sniper may have had toward Spy he must have kept to himself. Upon further inspection, it appeared that all the RED Sniper did in his free time was nap for hours and call his parents. The calls however, did lead Spy down a different rabbit hole entirely. 

The information Spy managed to gather genuinely shocked him. As he connected the dots a pang of regret hit Spy, soon to be washed away by anger because of the sheer stupidity and recklessness of it all. Sniper treated life far too carefree, and Spy had found evidence of this in the worst of ways. Armed with dangerous knowledge, he called Sniper for a meeting, and if he had just _listened_ then Spy wouldn’t have had to throw him down the stairs during their scuffle. 

Even now, as Spy stood near the telephone booth in the middle of the night, he berated himself for being soft. This was all a waste of time and effort. The stale environment offered him little to entertain himself with and Spy found himself more annoyed with every passing minute. His mind attempted to chalk this whole meeting up to indebting the Sniper for future gain, but the orange dust that had collected on his expensive shoes grated him so that the prospect of blackmail didn’t intrigue him as much as usual.

When Spy finally saw the shambling metal lunch box of a van roll to a stop near him, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the booth. The more nicotine coursing through his veins during this whole ordeal the better. 

The telephone booth that sat six kilometres on the outskirts of Teufort was one with odd origins. The landscape trapped it between strange rocky silhouettes, their daytime majesty transformed into dark judging figures at night. The standing telephone wires loomed overhead and disappeared into the ground before it. Across the cracked road stood the last gas station lost travelers would find for another two hours before being left at the whims of the unforgiving desert. 

The phone booth was technically still under Tuefort’s legislature despite its distance from the town, and thus was the location of one of the very few crimes officially recorded in the city’s modern records. While it had only been a robbery, it shook the tiny population of Tuefortians to their core. The city, ever helpful and attentive to the needs of its citizens, decided to protect those that may use the telephone with a glass casing, thus adding the “booth” part of the phone booth. Whether or not this booth actually helped deter any crime was up for debate, but since then there had been no other reports of such crimes, the mayor had declared it a place of sanctuary in honor of its outstanding ability to protect its patrons.

While one would argue it was not the most popular spot, it certainly made its money worth nearly ten times over due to the frequent visits of one very rich, but very smelly, bushman. 

Sniper parked in his usual spot across the street, the low rumble of the van’s engine coming to a stop. Spy watched him saunter over with his signature terrible posture, his pace rather relaxed for a meeting as rushed and important as this. Perhaps Sniper hadn’t taken his warning seriously. Either way, the casualness of it bothered Spy, kicking the night off to an annoying start without a word said. 

Spy took one last long drag on his cigarette before he addressed Sniper. “Certainly took you long enough.”

Sniper grinned back. “Oh bugger off, my watch says I’m right on time. Maybe yours is a lil’ fast?” 

Sniper was right, and instead it was the mere sight of him that was ruining Spy’s mood. He turned his gaze down to Sniper’s hand and saw him nervously flicking his fingers. Spy found some solace in the uncomfortable mood they both shared. At least he seemed to be taking this whole meeting seriously.

Spy’s face scrunched like he ate something sour. “Just get in the booth,” he sighed.

Spy slid the booth’s small door to the side, and Sniper raised an eyebrow. “May I ask why?” 

“You may not,” Spy said. “But you would be wise to enter if you would like this discussion to continue.” 

“Alright then.” Confused and compliant, Sniper stepped into the glass booth. 

Spy mentally prepared himself for the surely awkward conversation ahead. He sighed, tossed his cigarette into the dirt, gave it a quick stomp, and forcefully squeezed himself inside the small space as well. 

There's an inhale of protest from Sniper that is forcefully shushed until the glass door is closed behind him. The space was made for one person at a time and the two occupants were awkwardly pressed together like sardines in a can. 

Spy glared at the man that was far too close for comfort. “Know that if there was literally any other option I could trust, I would be doing that instead of shoving myself inside a tin can with _you."_

“Right.” Sniper shimmied in place to try and release his arm a little more. “So why have we done this?” 

“This is unfortunately the only place I trust with such information,” Spy said. “I imagine you are probably oblivious to the intense level of surveillance in this town.” 

Sniper’s face scrunched. “What are you on about?”

“Good lord, I really don’t have the time to explain everything to you.” Spy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I would like to be subjected to this pungent box-torture for as little time as possible.” 

Sniper reeled. “I happened to have taken a shower just this evening, you wanker!” 

“No doubt a special occasion.” Spy pinpointed the stench. “I’m sure you’re horrible headwear misses the monthly washing machine visits as well.” 

Spy swiped the hat off Sniper’s head and opened the door just enough to quickly toss it outside. “Much better,” he said with a smirk.

“You better hope the wind doesn't take that!” Sniper yelled.“I happen to like that hat!” 

“Oh please.” Spy rolled his eyes. “That hat has been practically begging for its life to be snuffed out.” 

“Are you done?” Sniper said, visibly agitated as he brushed a hand through his hair. “Just get to the bloody point.” 

“Yes, of course.” Spy adjusted his tie. “We are here because of the aforementioned surveillance. There are very few places for men like us to speak freely of sensitive information.” 

“So, like cameras?” Sniper said.

“Cameras, audio devices, wiretaps, just to name a few,” Spy continued. “It would be wise to not reveal workplace secrets to everyday people. Perhaps even people you call after work or on a set schedule once a week at the same telephone booth. Having a schedule makes you rather predictable after all, and makes for surveillance over you to be quite easy,” he said. “And that includes any advice you solicit about _professional competitors_ from your mother.” 

Sniper’s face twisted, his cheeks stained a light red. _"Have you been tapping into my bloody phone calls?!”_

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Spy wore the smallest grin as he pointed to a small box attached under the phone. “I tap everyone's calls.”

Sniper blinked at the phone, stunned. which made Spy’s self satisfied smile grow larger. “I happen to specialise in surveillance myself, which finally gets us to why I called you here.” 

Sniper sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, sure. Go on. I’m still digesting the privacy thing, but continue.” 

The grin then left Spy’s face as quickly as it appeared, he supposed that bad news never fell on welcoming ears. Spy loathed playing the messenger. Professional business was easy enough, but to bring information on personal affairs left a messy emotional clean up, and Spy simply never cared to be a participant in that part of the process. 

So he breathed and braced himself. “I like to keep tabs on my employers, as I’m certain they are keeping their tabs on me. Consider it a personal insurance policy. A man at Mann Co. sends me the occasional paystub, and thus, I know the movements of our company's main supplier.” Spy continued, “More interestingly enough, two days ago Mann Co. moved a large cargo-full of military grade weapons from Albuquerque to Sydney, with a layover flight to Cairns, another flight to Mt. Isa, until finally reaching the regional airport in Birdsville, Queensland.” 

Sniper lowered his voice. “What?” 

“When listening through your phone calls it came to my attention that you have spoken to your parents about sensitive information. While it may have been under the guise of casual chatter, I regret to inform you that they must’ve considered this a lively conversation topic with some of the other locals in your hometown,” Spy said. “Topics like respawn and teleportation are secrets RED has been keeping from international governments for years. Think about the information you’ve shared with your parents, the information they have, the information they may have _spread_ that is integral to the continued operation of RED. I’ve heard it all and I don’t believe your company would take lightly to the knowledge that was shared.” 

Sniper’s breath had picked up, audible as it left his mouth and fogged the glass beside him like a cornered animal.

Spy looked away. “I’m afraid I’ve heard word that the personal flight has already been scheduled. In short, it appears that RED is going to kill your parents. And they are bringing quite the stockpile of firepower with them. If I had to make an educated guess, they are planning to make the whole thing look like an accident in an attempt to keep you under contract. It isn’t exactly _easy_ to find men of our prowess so willing to leave their life behind for money.” He paused. “I figure there’s only a few days left before they are found and taken out.” 

There’s a horrible silence, something that’s only broken by Sniper’s shaky breaths. When he finally spoke, Spy’s attention flicked back to his face. “Are…” He paused. “Are you sure?” 

In all the times that they had fought each other, all the times that Spy had personally snuffed out Sniper’s life, he had never seen Sniper so shaken.

Spy kept his stare.“The gathering of information and predicting possible outcomes is a skill I’ve prided myself on for years. I am not doubting my intuition now.” 

Another short silence. Sniper flicked his gaze to the phone between them. Then—

“I can’t breathe,” Sniper gasped. He pushed past Spy and ripped himself out of the booth clutching his chest. 

Spy didn’t follow him. Alone in the booth, he watched Sniper feverishly process this information. The distance between them, the sight of Sniper broken down through the glass without him, felt right to Spy. But, the unfortunate truth was that eventually, he had to leave this protective glass casing. The cruelty of leaving Sniper to emotionally process this alone was not lost on Spy, but the fear of getting any closer held him in place. This is what Spy did best — look out for himself. 

Through the glass, Sniper’s devastated figure met his gaze. “Why?” he said miserably. “Why even tell me? Why even look into this?” 

Spy, finally dragged out of the booth glowered. “If you are under the assumption that this was some sort of special treatment then you are sadly mistaken.” 

He followed the script he had mentally prepared. “I am a Spy, it’s what I do. But do not expect me to magically fix problems you only created for yourself. When your parents die, remember that it was because of your own recklessness.”

He punctuated his last statement with a flip of the metal top of his lighter as he lit a cigarette. Sniper was once again left speechless, and it pissed Spy off. How could there be no outrage, no fire behind this man? Instead, Spy watched Sniper hyperventilate and wondered if he would wretch in the sand. Pathetic. 

This whole endeavor would have been easier for the both of them if Sniper would just get mad, if he would have an outburst of passion and readiness for a plan. But instead he was left with a man put in such a state of immediate despair that it impressed Spy that this was all it took to break him. This only solidified that he had always been right, and keeping anyone close truly was a foolish thing. 

“Don’t forget your hat,” Spy said.

“Yeah,” was all Sniper could offer, voice still airy. 

Spy took a long drag of his cigarette, flicking its ashes in Sniper’s direction as he watched him pick up his hat, dust it off and put it back on his head. He was clearly still in a daze, his mind on autopilot when he spoke. “Thanks… I guess.” 

“Don’t thank me.” Spy blew smoke. “I don’t want it.” 

“Right.” Sniper looked at him. “I… I got to go then.” 

“I would think so.” 

There’s no good-bye, no polite farewell, no hint of camaraderie when Sniper walked back to his van. It made the event feel like a business transaction, and Spy found comfort in that. While he tolerated Sniper’s company more than his other coworkers, at the end of the day they were just that — coworkers. Anything more would just be idiotic, unprofessional, and foolhardy. 

Spy stood alone as the van across the street noisily sprung to life and drove off. He watched the dust that trailed behind it settle, something akin to melancholy digging at his insides. He sighed bitterly. Business transactions never left him feeling quite so unreasonably guilty. The admission to that was not something he wanted to examine too closely. He snuffed out his cigarette with his shoe, and berated himself for being idiotic, unprofessional, and foolish.

That night, Spy couldn't sleep as his mind wandered off in dangerous directions. The image of Sniper’s miserable crumpled form forced itself to the forefront of his mind. Spy was no stranger to regret, he had been avoiding it for years. This feeling left his torso empty, the sensation of his body rotting and buried deep in the earth, and he _hated_ it. 

* * *

Sniper couldn’t catch his breath. The campervan’s dashboard was hazy in front of him. He couldn't focus on the numbers blurring together in a light glow. It was all too painful to think about. 

Flashes of his childhood home. His mother’s screams. 

Gun shot. Blood splattered against the floral wallpaper she so loved. 

His father wild-eyed. He can’t fight back. A strained last plea for mercy. The matching splatter of red coats the wall. 

They are left there to rot. Or perhaps, everything is burned to ash. No proof that they had ever lived in the first place.

They are alone. They are dead. And it’s all his fault.

He rubbed his eyes, the burning in them making him feel all the more powerless. The speedometer glared back at him from his dashboard, its blurry hand leaned too far to the right. He eased up on the gas, and realized his foot had been nearly pressed to the floor. He couldn't focus on the road in front of him. And were the lines always this crooked?

When Spy had told him the news, he had wanted to call them right then. But what would he do? Where would they go? Who was chasing them? He knew nothing. Even with his best intentions he couldn’t help them now, all he would do is scare them. 

Shaky breaths audibly kept him from completely spiraling, and it’s a miracle that he made it back to base in one piece. 

The tires crunched the dirt underneath as he eased the van to a halt. Parked in his usual space just outside the main building, he finally collapsed back into his seat. An uncomfortable pause followed by his outstretched hand to flick the bobblehead on his dashboard. He couldn't even let himself relax, his flicking getting faster and faster. He stared out at the empty scene in front of him illuminated by the van’s headlights. 

“Well, well, well!” 

Sniper snapped to attention. A figure was walking into the headlights. “Now what exactly were _you_ doin’ out in the middle of the night?” The voice came muffled through his windshield. 

“Demo?” Sniper said, his body stuck to his seat.

Now leaning against the hood of the van, it looked like Demo couldn’t hear Sniper’s voice and could barely see him, squinting over the brights in front of him. 

_"I said,"_ he mocked louder, “What were you doin’ out in the middle of the night? Were you out on a _date?_ ” 

He can’t even laugh. Sniper just huffed and he finally peeled himself out of the front seat and opened his squeaky side door to let Demo in. 

Demo strutted up to the door, his voice now much more audible. “Out on the town for the third week in a row, and you think I wouldnae notice? I’m a little insulted I wasnae invited out to your—” His words caught in his throat as he gazed upon Sniper’s slumped form under the fluorescent lights in front of him. “Oh, you look like hell.” 

“Yeah,” was all Sniper said. 

“You alright?” Demo put a hand on the doorway. “I can come back later if ya’ need space.” 

“I don’t know what I need.” Sniper headed back into the van and slumped into a booth seat, his hands on his head. 

Demo clicked his tongue and walked up the van steps. “The girl you’ve been seeing dumped ya’ then?” 

“What?” Sniper said. “No, just— just get in the van,” he sighed. “And shut the door.” 

Demo closed the door behind him and plopped down on the other side of the booth. “Well good,” he said. “I was about to get real mad about some lady taking all my friend’s time just to leave him looking like some sad sack of a man.” Sniper noted that Demo’s charisma shone through even in the darkest times, and was especially good at forcing him to open up. “So what’s really wrong then?” 

Sniper struggled. “It’s a long story.” 

“Good thing I got all bloody night then.” Demo answered, kicking off his shoes. 

If there was anyone he trusted with this information, it was Demo. Again he struggled for words, but Demo got comfortable in the seat across from him and waved an encouraging arm for him to continue. 

“I—” God, he couldn’t even say it. The words caught like needles in his throat. Images of blood once again flashed before his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.” He sounded hopeless. “It’s all my fault, I should’ve known better than to open my _stupid_ mouth. Dad doesn’t even want to hear it anyway,” his voice broke, “I can’t even get two words out of the man and now this? What am I gonna do, _call them?_ They can’t do anything about it, and _Mum_ —” 

“Woah, woah!” Demo reached across the table and planted his hand on Sniper’s shoulder. “Slow down there lad. What happened? You got in a fight with your parents?” 

Sniper wished with all of his heart that this was just a fight. His voice shook as his throat closed up. “RED’s gonna kill my parents.” 

“The company?” Demo backed up. “What does the big boss upstairs want to do with a couple of old people in the outback?” 

“It’s my fault.” Sniper was spiraling again. He forced his stare down on the table in front of him to anchor himself. “It’s all my fault, I broke the contract. I didn’t think they would go telling people about my work— I didn’t think my Dad talked about me at all!” 

Demo furrowed his brow. “So they know you're killing people for money or...?” 

“Everything,” Sniper snapped. “They know everything. Anything I know about they know, my mum and I, we talk about everything.” He took a shaky breath. “Now RED’s gonna kill them because they know about all the technology here. Company secrets.” 

“Ah.” Demo answered simply. They were all well informed upon hire of the intense non-disclosure agreement and how it was enforced. Sniper refused to look at Demo, the shame of it all forced him to look down at his shoes like a scolded child. 

Again, Demo reached across the table and gave his shoulder a shake. “Hey, it’s gonna’ be alright.” He paused, but Sniper didn't look up. “How do you even know this is true? Who told you all of this?” 

This perked Sniper’s attention. A groan forced its way from his throat. “That’s another bloody long story.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Demo offered with a smile. 

Sniper felt embarrassed, berating himself for what an idiot he’s been. He _knew_ how terrible this looked. “I’ve... been meeting with the BLU Spy.” 

Demo’s hand slid from his shoulder. His body stiffened in his seat. “You _what?"_

“It’s not a big deal alright?” Sniper defended himself, his ears hot. “Normally it’s just drinks, but this time he shoves me into the world’s tiniest phone booth and tells me my parents are as good as dead!” 

Demo digested the information, his face stern. “So he told you all of this?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you trusted him?” Demo asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“Right,” Demo sighed, unconvinced. “Now, we’re gonna ignore the part about you meeting up with the other team for right now. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but isn’t it the spy’s bloody _job_ to lie in the first place?” 

“It’s complicated,” Sniper groaned. “He wouldn’t lie about something like this.” 

“Why not?” Demo waved an arm. “Here you are, out in the middle of the night worrying about some gossip you got from a man paid to kill you. I’m sure you’ll be one hell of a shot tomorrow distracted with all this nonsense, if you show up at all that is.” 

“It ain’t like that.” 

“Listen,” Demo lowered his voice. “You’re a good man. I can see you’re worried about ya’ folks. But believe me when I tell you that those BLUs aren’t above social sabotage. You’re letting this spy get into your head. If you want my advice, you’d do well to just forget anything he told you.” 

Sniper tapped the front of his boot on the cheap laminate floor. He could understand Demo’s reasoning, but he found himself frustrated still. If there was anyone on his team that would help him no questions asked it would’ve been Demo. And yet, the sound logic of his words slapped him in the face. _Of course_ he knew trusting a BLU was bad news. Their delighted faces when they snuffed out his life and sent him to respawn were proof enough of that. 

But it was also obvious that this meeting tonight was not a trick. It was a warning from a friend.

Sniper stood his ground. “I appreciate the concern, but quite frankly, I’m not asking for your advice. I’m asking for your help.” 

His voice cracked on the last word and it made Demo’s face soften. He raised his hands in surrender. “Listen I’m not here to pick a fight. I’m just making sure you’re thinking straight.” 

Sniper took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I trust him, but I don’t know what I can do.” He brought his hand down on the table in front of him roughly. “It’s maddening.” 

Demo looked at his friend. “Well,” he started with a huff, “if the bloody BLU snake won’t give you any solutions, then it’s up to our noggins to come up with something, hm?” 

Sniper locked eyes with Demo, his slighty grin infectious, a promise that things will get better. “I guess so.” 

“I know so!” Demo replied confidently. “Now I cannae stop you from making bad decisions, but I think I can help you out with this one.” He smiled. “You’re real lucky the little man in the lab owes me a favor.” 

Sniper rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “I really don’t know what I would do without you, ya’ bloody larrikin.” 

“Probably be moping about feeling sorry for yourself.” Demo smiled back. “Let me grab Engineer, then. I’ll be right back.” 

The metal van door closed noisily behind him. Left alone, Sniper deeply exhaled again. His horrible thoughts had slowed down with time. He glanced down at his watch, it’d nearly been an hour since he left his meeting with Spy. There was a fleeting thought, one that with the silence around him questioned Spy’s information. The sinking sensation hit his gut, but he pushed it down. Even Spy wasn’t so cruel to make this up. If Spy really had been listening to his calls, then he would know how much this would break him. Sniper chose to trust Spy and his warning because he truly did consider them friends, but there was also an alternative that loomed over him, one he too was scared to confront directly. 

_Spy wouldn’t lie about this,_ Sniper convinced himself, _they were friends._

He stopped this train of thought and focused on something more productive like Demo had suggested. Creating a plan of attack, he figured that the journey to Australia was the easy part. The hard part would be lowering suspicion, creating a scenario in which his absence either wouldn’t be important or would seem natural given the circumstances. Under their contract, the only way you got out of work was if the match never happened. Weekends and major holidays were the only vacation, and with the respawn and intense medical technology, health was never a concern. 

It made for a tricky getaway. Sniper considered bribing his own team's Spy into disguising as him for short periods of time, but that was more of a short term solution. It would buy him a day worth of time maybe, but he needed _days._ Sniper had no idea how long this would take, all of this was just far too sudden and vague. 

A quick knock at the metal door before Demo’s voice boomed as he entered. “Honey, I’m home!” 

Sniper smiled at Demo’s entrance. “You get truckie alright?” 

Behind Demo in his sweatpants and white tank top stood Engineer, who was less than happy about leaving his lab in the middle of the night rubbed his eyes at the light of the van interior, “Y'all better have some good reason making me come all the way out here.” He coughed. “Not that your van full of dirty laundry isn’t _lovely_ and all, but I’d love to get some good shut-eye before work tomorrow and I got a few things I still gotta tinker with.” 

“Well,” Demo leaned against the booth seat and put on his best salesman act, “how would you like to have a little vacation?” 

Engie squinted at the two of them. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“As it turns out, our boy here needs to be out of town for the next few days.” Demo gestured at Sniper.

“That’s against contract.” 

“Bingo.” Demo pointed to him. “And well, we were thinking that you might know a way to get the lot of us out of some matches for the next, erm, week or so.” 

“A week?!” Engie scoffed. 

“Well, actually a week might be on the shorter side,” Demo said. “It will probably be a bit longer. The details are classified I’m afraid.” 

Engie rubbed his eyes again. “Listen boys, y'all are insane. I can’t help you with that.” 

Sniper shrank into his seat. Demo lifted a hand in confidence to calm him. “That’s too bad,” Demo said with a dramatic sigh “I thought if there was _anyone_ on base that could help it’d be you.” 

Engineer, who had absolutely caught on to Demo’s act, smirked.“Yeah, a real damn shame that is.” 

“I guess we’ll just have to ask someone smarter, buddy.” Demo patted Sniper’s back. “I wonder if Medic’s still up?” 

“Now hold on,” Engie said sternly. “I _can_ do it. I’m just not about to break my contract for no reason.” 

“Then prove it. You owe me one, and we need help from a real genius.” 

Engie sighed with the knowledge that he’d been played, but smiled despite it. “Alright. You got me.”

For the next hour, the three of them sat in the van and brainstormed different possible solutions. When they finally came up with something solid, it was a warm ray of hope. A year ago Sniper could’ve never seen himself this close to his teammates. Demo, as always, had been right about getting to know the others, and Sniper mentally took note to grab him some craft beer in Australia while he was there. Sniper also selfishly thanked the universe for the Engineer’s intense insomnia, as it seemed like their plan could be up and running by morning.

“So, Sniper,” Engie said. “In the morning you’ll head to the airport with Demo and be on your way. Demo will drive the van back and be here before the base wakes up. When he gets back, I’m gonna overload the main generator of power to forcefully cause a blackout. That means all the surveillance around here will be down while we break the damn thing with some modified explosives.” 

“You’re welcome.” Demo beamed.

“I also got my own telephone line,” Engie continued, “just a lil’ something I whipped up to keep my privacy. If you need anything, be sure to give it a ring.” 

Demo clapped his hands. “Sounds like a solid plan to me!” 

“Now boys,” Engie addressed them seriously. “Realize that I’m gonna ‘break’ the respawn and that means two things.” 

They nod. 

“One,” he lifted a finger, “there ain’t nothing bringing your behinds back should you decide to get yourselves killed. That means Demo’s in charge of making sure the rest of the base doesn’t end up killing itself and Sniper, you can’t croak cause of Australian heat stroke or something. And two,” he lifted another finger, “I’d imagine they are gonna have me working twenty-four-seven trying to get it back up and running. I think this will work, but I’m giving it a week’s time at most. The Spy owes me a favor, so I figure if Miss Pauling comes around we can use some of his fancy tricks to make her think you’re still here.” 

It’s a risky plan, but it just might work. Sniper scratched behind his head. “Truckie, I really can’t thank you enough.” 

“Yeah well,” he said with a smile, “Somebody’s gotta’ be the brains of this operation. God knows you’ll get yourselves killed otherwise.” 

“We might still get ourselves killed,” Demo said, “we got plenty of time.” 

Sniper shook his head. “If I do kark it you can have all my stuff. And Truckie can have the van.” 

“Aw Sniper, I’m glad to see you in a joking mood,” Demo laughed. “I was hoping some scrawny fella would will me his piss jars and knife collection tonight.” 

Sniper gave a slight smile. The future ahead of him scary, but now much more manageable. “What else are friends for?” 

Not long after, the three of them exchange their good-byes for the evening. Engie had given Sniper one last pat on the back along with his well wishes for a successful mission. He’d needed a few days off from work anyway, he joked. 

Demo waited for Engineer to leave before he gave a quick warning of his own. 

“Be careful about those BLUs.” He stared at Sniper, serious. “I know personally how awful and twisted they can be.” 

“Oh.” Sniper raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really,” Demo said. “You let me know if that conniving little spy even thinks of double crossing you, cause you better believe he’s gonna _wish_ he never met you or the sharp end of my sword.” 

“I’ll be sure to let you know.” Sniper smiled. “I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“Really, of all the BLU’s you had to go and befriend,” Demo said as he walked out of the van, “you pick the most infuriating little frog.”

Sniper waved. “Goodnight, Demo.” 

The silence that followed their departure was not the comforting silence Sniper usually craved. This suffocated him. The light scent of mildew and the brightness of the cheap lights overwhelmed him, his senses still in overdrive. He half-heartedly prepared for bed knowing that sleep wouldn’t come easy.

He laid awake most of the night, but the last thing he remembered before drifting off was the face of his watch on the booth table staring back at him. In his last thoughts, Sniper wondered if his parents had an uneventful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ay! shpeeper here- the Australianism for this evening:
> 
> [1] Larrikin - a total lad, absolute rascal, just a fun dude to hang around (but is a lil bit of a trouble maker) 
> 
> this chap took a hot minute to get out, as its um. been a time for all of us! i hope yall been doing alright!
> 
> Thank u as always to schnozzbun who is very good at writing and has the patience to fix my many grammatical errors. i am but a very enthusiastic creature that pretends i know english lol.
> 
> also shout out to @meetthecook on tumblr who is our side editor we also throw words at and she fixes them. there are lots of words to fix and we appreciate her.
> 
> EDIT- I made some edits to this chapter:  
> \- changed some of Spy and Sniper's dialogue  
> \- updated localization files


	5. Chapter 5

_C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…_

Sniper listened to the garbled whirs of machines, the plastic clacks of buttons being punched, and the distant conversational haze of dozens of operators. 

Sniper’s hand tightened around the telephone. Couldn’t they go any faster?

The logical part of his brain knew speed would make very little difference. If his parents were dead, they were dead. But the logical part of his brain could shut up right now, because—

The line clacked to life.

“G’day, Sharon speaking.”

 _“Mum.”_ Sniper sighed with such heavy relief it was almost painful. He leant back against the wall of the phonebooth.

“Jesus, Mick, is that you? Are you alright?”

Sniper couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Yes! Yes, yes I am. Very much, very very much, um. I have good news!”

“What?”

“I’m coming down! T-to Oz, I mean. I talked to the boss and he said I could take a week’s holiday.”

“Really?” Mrs Mundy’s voice shimmered with hope. “Are you really, Micky?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“When can we expect you?”

“Two days. I’m heading to the airport right now.”

“O-Oh!” Mrs Mundy said. “That’s quite soon, isn’t it?”

Sniper licked his lips. “I mean, it’s about time don’tcha reckon? No time like the present and all that. Ha-ha!” He laughed in a way that was too cheerful and not like him at all.

The line went quiet.

Sniper rapidly flicked one finger against the glass behind him. He had to think. Jesus, how could anyone lie like this? Let alone to their own parents? He couldn’t do this.

Just before it was all about to come spilling out — the truth, everything — he stopped himself. Sniper breathed through his nose. “Mum, I’ve— I’ve just missed you and Dad, a lot. I was just really keen on seeing youse again, that’s all…”

More quiet. Sniper held his breath. 

Finally, Mrs Mundy’s chuckled warmly. “Alright, chookie. Sorry for sounding so shocked, you’re usually so structured with these things. But this is such a pleasant surprise, I can’t tell you how excited I am to hear you’ll be visiting,” she said, her smile clear in her voice. “Do you have any plans for when you’re down here?”

Sniper’s shoulders relaxed. “I do, actually. Matter of fact, I was thinking of bringing you and Dad with me on a roadtrip of sorts. Head to Alice Springs, see Uluru. What do you reckon?”

“Oh, Mick, that sounds wonderful! Just wait until I tell your father.”

He chuckled nervously at the thought. “Yeah, well—”

Sniper jumped as he heard two light honks. He looked out the glass door and saw Demo leaning out the passenger window of the van parked just outside, eyebrows raised as he tapped his wrist.

“Mum, I’m so sorry but I really do need to get going if I want to make good time. I’ll call back soon, alright?”

“Right,” she said, the slightest of wilts in her voice, like she’d been expecting the conversation to go for much longer. 

Sniper fought the pang in his gut. He wished there was a way he could tell her he wanted to stay too, for things to be normal, back when their lives weren’t dangling by a thread because of him. Instead, he said nothing.

“Hear from you soon?” Mrs Mundy prompted.

“Of course.”

“Alright. Goodbye, Micky.”

“Bye, Mum.”

Sniper waited for the line to click off before he dropped the phone on the hook. He pushed his way out of the booth and walked to the campervan.

“How are they?” Demo said.

“Alive.”

Sniper closed the driver’s-side door and turned on the ignition.

It was dark out, the only hint of day was the thin red line of dawn bisecting the earth and sky like blood gleaming off the razor’s edge of a knife. It was a two-hour drive to the Albuquerque airport.

Sniper mentally went over what he’d packed; it fooled him into thinking he was more prepared than he actually was. He had his rifle case — obviously. Everything else was packed into his beat up leather duffel bag: Survival gear, ball of yarn and needles, a soft-cover book on bushtucker and bushtracking that had layers of sticky tape running down the spine, toothbrush, and some changes of clothes. 

Well, not quite. Rifling through his closet, Sniper had realised that he’d thrown away all of his civvy shirts in exchange for a drawer full RED-issue uniform. Due to this, Sniper was currently wearing a yellow collared shirt that belonged to Demo and was way too big around his shoulders. He’d just have to get new clothes in Australia. Spook would probably think he looked ridiculous.

Sniper readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. This was a strange moment to be thinking about the BLU Spy. Sniper wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel towards him. Angry? Well, that wasn’t really fair. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that. 

He supposed it was a mark of how not-terrible Spook could be, going through the trouble of setting up a meeting to give him a casual heads-up that his parents were going to die. That was something, right? Still…

_When your parents die, remember that it was because of your own recklessness._

...there was no need to be such a dickhead about it.

Meanwhile, Demo pored over the map spread out on the dashboard. He had ordained himself as the trip’s navigator. He stifled a yawn. Demo and Engie had stayed up late rehashing the respawn plan.

Demo reached for the mug from the cupholder and grimaced after taking a swig. While Sniper was extremely grateful that Demo had done all this, it also meant his friend was running on fumes. 

“Hope you haven’t snuck anything into that coffee,” Sniper said. “Need you sober on the drive back ‘cause—”

“You’ll kill me if I lay so much as a dent on the van, yeah yeah.” Demo waved his hand limply. “I’ll have you know I havenae drunk a drop since last night, thank you very much.”

“When was the last time you had coffee without any hair of the dog mixed in?”

Demo chuckled. “It’s too early for me to count that high, mate. I’m a crossbrew lad meself, but even some sugar wouldnae have hurt, this tastes like shite.”

And with that the conversation fizzled, swallowed by the van’s thrumming engine as they crossed the Badlands. The imposing rock formations outside glowed like red hot coals as they were hit by the creeping sunrise. The road stretched ahead like an infinite arrow pointing towards something inevitable. 

“I’m still not sure about this,” Demo said.

Sniper tightened his grip on the wheel. “Demo, please.”

“Just hear me out. What makes you think that this isn’t a honeypot? Luring you out to Australia, nice and isolated and exposed, just to get you, your ma and da all in one fell swoop.”

Sniper’s gut clenched instinctively, but he shook his head. “No, no I’ve thought of that. Why would BLU care I was leaking information, let alone tell me? It wouldn’t make any sense.”

“You’re assuming the BLU snake was telling you the truth, lad. Indulge me for a moment. What if this whole information-leaking nonsense is all keech made up by BLU, just to get RED’s Sniper out of commission so they can fight with an advantage over RED?”

Sniper caught the speedometer creeping higher and higher. He eased his foot from the gas pedal until the needle relaxed again.

This was feeling like the argument from last night. Weren’t they past this?

“Two things,” Sniper said. “First off, the implication that BLU thinks I’m a big enough threat that needs to be nixed via cross-continental goose chase is a very high compliment, I’m never gonna let you live that down, and _second off,_ I know the BLU Spy wouldn’t do that.”

“How?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust _you,_ what I don’t trust are enemy spies.”

“What are you suggesting then? I leave it to chance that my parents might die? I don’t have a bloody choice!”

Demo went quiet. He crossed his arms, slouching in his seat. “I still donnae like it.” 

“Alright, what am I missing? Is there some personal vendetta I don’t know about?”

“Ohhhh donnae go lecturing _me_ about vendettas with the enemy team. That is rich coming from you.”

Sniper winced, but stayed on course. “I’m serious... Last night you were swearing up and down how you personally knew that ‘BLU’s aren’t above social sabotage.’ What did you mean by that?”

For just a moment, Demo hesitated. But any flash of uncertainty was covered up in an instant. “They’re the enemy. They blow us up everyday, laugh when we die — it’s in their bloody purview, ain’t it?”

Sniper chose his next words carefully. “I only ask because it sounds like you were talking from experience.”

Demo’s face darkened. “Now hang on, before you go accusing me of—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, mate. And I know I’d be the pot calling the kettle black if I was. You’re me best mate, it’s just… it sounds like you’ve possibly had a comparable experience,” he said haltingly. 

Demo was quiet. Sniper had never seen him like this. Demo, someone who always had some clever witticism, whose mind ran as fast as his mouth, being as quiet as the dead made Sniper uncomfortable.

“It was the BLU Soldier,” Demo said, staring intently at his feet.

Sniper put all his energy into keeping his face still. He was just blindly following a hunch, he had no idea he’d actually be right.

“We met during our second year. Used to be mates. Jane and I.”

Sniper blinked. “The bloke’s name was Jane?”

“Shut your bloody mouth.”

“Sorry.”

Demo rubbed his forehead and sighed. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not worth… Anyway. I met the bastard at a weapon’s exposition. Saw him approaching, thought he was coming to have a square go at me. But he’d just walked up to tell me I’d dropped my pamphlet. Thought it was funny, me all ready to batter the bloke and him trying to get my attention over a wee bit of paper. So I offered him a drink.”

Sniper couldn’t help being surprised. “I never knew about any of this.”

“That’s because you didnae know nothing about anything around base ‘till i started talking to you.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Truth hurts. Regardless, we kept it secret from our teammates, and agreed to only see each other away from work. It lasted six months.” 

Demo scratched his chin. He scrunched his eye closed and let out a deep sigh. 

It looked like Demo wasn’t going to say anything else, but Sniper knew there had to be more than that. So he waited, because he was good at waiting.

“Then the wee lass Miss Pauling knocked on my door.”

Miss Pauling was that mousy-looking receptionist woman who worked for the Administrator, and who was also Sniper’s real boss, technically. She was good for the occasional chat. If you needed anything from RED or Mann Co you went through her. She arrived every fortnight with shipments from the Mann Co catalogue, new announcements from the Administrator, or delivering personal mail.

Sniper had never heard about Pauling visiting somebody’s home though. This must have been very, very serious.

Demo continued. “She told me RED knew I’d been seeing him and wanted me to stop in exchange for new weapons. I never like being bribed, but I was a fool to even hesitate. Lo and behold, Miss Pauling let me know that BLU had given old Janey the same deal and he’d graciously accepted,” he said with a drop of quiet bitterness that Sniper had never heard from him before.

“The next day, soon as the match started, the Soldier flew out of BLU, touting his shiny new toys, heading straight towards me. I was in respawn in less than a second. That’s when I knew it was all behind us now. That whatever friendship we had meant absolute _fuck-all_ to him.”

“Jesus,” Sniper muttered. It was weird to hear Demo talk this way. So terse, robotic even. Demo embellished, he glorified, he could make a walk to the fridge for a midnight snack sound like a grand adventure. Sniper got the distinct sense that Demo was holding back, cradling something private.

Sniper thought back to his first months at base, trying to remember if he’d noticed any changes in RED’s Demoman back then. But, no. Nothing came to mind. In those early years Sniper really was the ghost of RED, bee-lining straight to his van after matches and the handful of meals he attended. While he wasn’t due to become friends with Demo for another two years, it still hurt to think that Demo had gone through all that. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, mate,” Sniper said. “Must’ve felt terrible.”

“It’s alright,” Demo muttered. “Wasnae your fault. I’d just thought… well, it doesnae matter now, does it?” He took another sip of coffee, grimacing awake as he remembered how terrible it tasted. “I’m just worried about you.” He put down the mug and looked at Sniper intently. “Just… Never put too much of your faith in a BLU, mate. It’ll be nothing but disappointment.”

Sniper nodded, digesting the information. He refused to believe that Spy would ever betray him like that. Sure, he was a pompous shit, but he wasn’t malicious— okay that was a lie actually, he could be pretty damn malicious.

And hell, Demo must’ve trusted the BLU Soldier just fine too. Fine enough to see each other for half a year, much longer than this tenuous truce he’d had with the BLU Spy…

Sniper stopped the train of thought. It wouldn’t be like Spy to do that, it was too much energy. Spy did things efficiently, expending the least amount of energy possible. If this was just a ruse to kill him, surely he would’ve done it by now, right?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sniper said. “Thanks, Tavish.”

“No problem, Mick.”

They arrived in Albuquerque. Sniper looked at the digital clock in the van’s dashboard as he pulled into the airport. Five o’clock. If Demo booked it he’d be able to make it back a little after seven before RED fully woke up so he could help Engineer blast respawn apart. Hopefully.

Sniper parked the van. He stepped out, retriever his grey rifle case and shouldered his duffel bag. Meanwhile, Demo was buckling his seatbelt in the driver’s seat. Sniper halted, a wave of gratitude washing over him.

Sniper walked up and leant on the open van window. “Demo, I—”

“Wait, wait before any of that. _Jesus, I can’t believe I nearly forgot.”_ Demo pulled out a large, blocky phone with a shiny telescoping antenna. “Here, Engie wanted me to give this to ya. He’s got another one just like it at base. Better than the Mann Co stuff, so says he.” He handed it to Sniper and looked him in the eye. “Call as soon as you can.”

“I will.” Sniper stowed the phone away. “Thanks, mate. For everything. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” He held out his hand.

Demo clapped his hand into Sniper’s and gave it a firm shake. “I know you’d do the same for me. Remember, if you die out there, I’ll kill you.”

Sniper laughed.

“I’m not kidding. I’ve exorcised ghosts before, it ain’t pretty.” He patted Sniper’s shoulder.

Sniper stepped back as Demo pulled the van out of the car park. The handful of people moving in and out of the airport gave the eccentric camper van a wary eye and a wide berth.

“Keep an eye on Old Mate while I’m gone!” Sniper called.

“The spy? Hah! Just wait ‘till I get my hands on that BLU snake. I’ll get to the bottom of things, lad, just you wait.”

Sniper waved as the van roared off. He kept his hand in the air long after it was out of sight. He slowly lowered his arm.

He turned and stared at the airport. All he had to do was walk in, book the flights, and survive well over twenty hours in the planet’s stratosphere without thinking about his parents being dead by now. Simple.

It took Sniper fifteen minutes to line up and mumble his way through the script he’d rehearsed in his head about buying tickets to Australia, two minutes to reserve the flights with alarming efficiency, and then another ten to queue for the next plane to London. 

Entering the plane, Sniper took his seat next to the window. It had been a while since he’d flown, and for good reason. The lack of legroom made him feel like a grasshopper in a matchbox, all of the other passengers were stuffy business blokes who he didn’t care to be close to, and he could do without the haze of tobacco smoke quickly filling up the cabin like it was a bloody contest.

More people filed into the plane. The pilot announced to fasten their seatbelts. Sniper’s stomach did a somersault as the plane launched into the air.

Now, Sniper was no stranger to passing the time. He was a patient man. He knew how to make time contract, make it stretch and warp to his will. Usually he’d doze, except his mind felt like a TV scrolling through twenty channels per second. He’d knit, but he was surrounded by a plane full of strangers, and a man making a scarf wasn’t the epitome of subtlety. Cracking open his book was futile, he kept rereading the same sentence over and over.

He looked at his watch. They’d been in the air for nine minutes.

The hamster wheel of his mind began to spin. Earlier he had driving and Demo to keep him busy, but now it was just him, stranded in a sea of strangers. He needed a distraction. 

Clouds. Yes. Wonderful. So many shapes and sizes. Clouds that were light and fluffy like fairy floss, clouds that dusted the air like flour on bread, clouds that looked thick and heavy like clay.

Sniper leaned unblinkingly into the window until his nose was touching the glass. It was funny seeing the top side of clouds. To think he was among the first generation of humans to have the privilege of answering the age-old-question: _what the hell is up there?_ He supposed some would be disappointed to learn there were no gods or pearly gates, just a whole lot of blue.

_Heaven. Where your parents will be. Because they’re probably dead by now. Thanks to you._

Sniper inhaled sharply through his nose as he tightened his grip on the armrest.

Calm down. That never helped anyone. Close your eyes. Relax. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

See? There you go. It was just like sniping.

_Right, just like how you got yourself in this bloody mess in the first place._

The pressure in his head built. It felt like a pair of windup keys were being pressed to his ears, winding tighter and tighter. His skull was going to explode.

Don’t think about it. Don’t.

_Your fault, your fault, your fault._

Visions of blood bloomed in his head: knocking on the Mundy-home door and being greeted with silence, the door screeching against the hinges, the foul stench of bloated bodies deflating under the beating sun. No tearful reunion, no rescue, just a creaking oven of a house, and flies. 

There would be so many flies. 

All because he was a twisted, over dependent-weirdo that still called his parents, the same parents who he kept at arm's-length but clung to desperately, the same parents he talked to again and again knowing he’d never be able to please. And could he blame them? He wasn’t right in the head. There was something deeply wrong with him. He was just a… Just a—

_Bad son. A bad son, bad son, bad son, bad son, badsonbadsonbadsonbadson—_

DING!

“We’ll be making our landing in fifteen minutes. Please fasten your seat belts as the cabin approaches landing.”

Eleven hours. Sniper had spent eleven hours spiralling. And he still had three more planes to go, not counting layovers.

As soon as he got off the plane he got the fucking card from the fucking airport bank kiosk that you were meant to charge money to for long distance calls because he was sick of carrying around a bag of quarters like a child.

Every time he landed in an airport he’d dart to the nearest payphone and call home. It took an absurd amount of restraint not to yell at the switchboard person to patch him through faster. Each time he heard his mum’s tentative “Hello?” he wanted to whoop for joy.

His brain was developing a rule. Nothing bad could happen to his parents as long as he was on the phone with them. He knew it was absurd, but he’d grow more and more nervous whenever he felt the conversation withering to a stop. He’d talk about the airport and the dishwater they served for coffee on the plane, all the while thinking _I’m almost there. You’re going to be okay, Mum. Tell Dad I’m almost there._

Finally, he was in Australia. He called his parents at night in Sydney, telling them he’d be there sometime time next morning. He took an excruciating flight to Brisbane, and found a pilot there who flew a tiny aircraft that did the early-morning milk run across regional Queensland, dropping supplies to the different outback communities. 

Sniper had been travelling for almost forty-eight hours, and not once had gotten any proper sleep. Zombie-like, he collapsed in the little backseat among boxes of canned goods before he blacked out from sheer exhaustion.

Sniper woke up from a patch of sun hitting his cheek. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, it could’ve been anywhere from two minutes to two hours. Not that he felt any less tired. They were still in the air, the hum of the engine rattling his whole body. 

The sunlight was coming from the sliver of window at the side of the plane. Sniper squinted, readjusting his glasses. He leaned forward and peered through the glass at the landscape below and felt his stomach flutter.

It was like looking through a letter box, but there was no mistaking it. Red, sun-baked earth, the dark green dustings of bushland weaving paths like trails of gunpowder, the circular patches of sand marking the beginnings of the Simpson Desert.

A vague idea was beginning to take shape in his sleep-deprived brain with the same graceful certainty as a ship emerging from the mist.

He was coming home. For the first time in nearly two decades he was coming back home.

He looked down at his watch, then at the position of the sun. They were in sync. He didn’t have to subtract the numbers anymore.

Maybe that’s what had been wrong this whole time. Whenever Sniper had travelled overseas, he’d always felt out of time with his surroundings. Walking off-beat, not quite fitting in with the rhythms of the landscape, let alone the people.

But now he was back. His watch wasn’t a window to somewhere else, it reflected the reality of where he was. From now on, every step he took would be moving in-time with the ticking of his watch. 

After nearly an hour of watching the landscape unspool beneath him, the scenery going from nostalgic to familiar as he recognised the desert paths, he saw it.

Nestled in the desert, running parallel to a long stretch of a billabong watering hole lay the tiny town of Birdsville.

It was so small. A pinprick as insignificant as a grain of sand on the back of a dung beetle. A place liminal right down to its inception, an in-between point for cattle drovers to get supplies and water their herd.

He was close. He prayed he would be close enough.

The plane landed. As soon as the plane door opened Sniper was greeted with a blast of hot wind.

Sniper grabbed his luggage and shook the pilot’s hand before he stepped off the plane. He scanned the area. Birdsville’s ‘airport’ was really just an airstrip running perpendicular from the town. There was a long chain-link fence separating the runway from the main thoroughfare, which was a generous word to describe the road with the one pub-slash-hotel and three shops.

Sniper looked down the end of the fence. Next to the rickety airplane hangar stood two figures. One quite tall, one quite short, both with shocks of silver hair poking from under their hats.

The shorter one was waving.

Sniper’s thoat caught. It was Mum and Dad. He was overcome with tenderness. He knew it was just the distance, a trick of perspective, they were only twenty or so metres away. But from here they looked so… small. Even though they were his parents, they might as well have been as innocent as children. They hadn’t the slightest idea of what Sniper had gotten them into.

Sniper swallowed his guilt and waved back. There was no use worrying. Nothing would happen as long as he was here.

He took the first step when something caught his eye. A man, walking quickly coming from the other side of the fence and towards his parents. He stood in front of them, back turned to Sniper, talking emphatically. The man wore a white collared shirt, black slacks, and no hat. Sniper could see the red dust caked at the bottom of the man’s shoes.

A stranger.

Sniper dimly heard a thud and clatter as his luggage hit the ground.

Adrenaline pumped through his limbs as he launched himself across the tarmac. His feet slammed against the ground, arms swinging furiously as a wordless roar tore his throat like breathing fire. 

Sniper grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him sideways. He snatched the front of the man’s shirt and curled his free hand into a fist. The man let out a surprised gasp.

Sniper lurched to a stop. That voice…

He sniffed. There was a faint, spicy, tobacco smell.

Sniper squinted, his breath hissing from his teeth in hard pants as he felt his tunnel vision fade away.

He registered the man’s features. Pale faced, slicked-back salt and pepper hair — those meant nothing. But those sharp eyes, the curve of his nose, the familiar weight at the end of his hand...

Sniper’s glasses slipped down his nose as the realisation dawned on him.

“...Spook?”

“Nice to see you too, Mr Mundy,” he said. “Could you kindly stop sweating on me?”

It was Spy. The BLU Spy was here. 

In Australia. 

_Without his mask._

Sniper blinked. He sheepishly looked behind him to see his parents staring with wide-eyed shock.

Right, Sniper thought. I can still salvage this.

He looked back at Spy and forced a smile. “It’s great to see you, mate!” Sniper pulled Spy into a hug with one arm while slapping him harder on the back than was necessary. Spy laughed along despite the red handprints surely blooming underneath his shirt.

Sniper slung an arm around Spy’s shoulder. “What are _you_ doing here?” he said through grit teeth.

Much to Sniper’s equal surprise and terror, Spy smiled back. Not a sneer, but a nice, acquiescent smile. “My apologies, Mr Mundy. I understand you were supposed to arrive first but they moved my flight. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for spoiling the surprise.” 

Sniper gawked at this polite, affable, alien.

Spy turned to Mr and Mrs Mundy as he smoothed his shirt. “See? Just a bit of excitement. The mercenary lifestyle can have its adverse effects on the psyche, so it’s hard to shake off old habits. People like us will never experience such things, but it’s important we sympathise, hm?” He returned his gaze to Sniper. “The silver lining is that your parents and I have managed to get acquainted, so that saves us introductions.”

Mrs Mundy said, “Mick, how come you never mentioned Leonard? He’s quite charming.”

Sniper's mouth was dry. His eyes darted back and forth between Spook and his parents. There was something about seeing these two parts of his life violently mashed together that was shutting down parts of his brain. It was like mixing wine and milk.

“Could you excuse us for a tic?” Sniper put a hand on Spy’s back and quickly walked him down the tarmac away from his parents.

Sniper heard Dad mutter, “Not just a crazed gunman, then. Looks like he’s graduated to assault and battery.”

“Oh, hush,” said Mum.

Sniper walked faster. Spy nearly jogged to keep up with Sniper’s long strides.

When they were a good few feet out of earshot Sniper stopped and turned to Spy. “What are you doing here?”

“Keep walking,” Spy intoned. “If we stop it looks like we’re arguing. You’ve already caused enough of a scene.” Spy put his hand on Sniper’s shoulder and leisurely pushed him along. “We’re just two friends, reminiscing on old times.”

As much as Sniper wanted to shrug off Spy’s hand, it was a strange relief to hear the familiar frustrated tone and impatient scowl elicited from Spy having to make any physical contact with him. 

Sniper looked ahead as he spoke. “Why are you here? Scratch that— _How_ are you here? I left for the airport the morning after you told me.”

“I chartered a jet.”

 _“‘I chartered a jet,’”_ Sniper repeated in a snobby voice.

Spy frowned. “It’s the obvious thing to do. I got here yesterday. We’re both rich, you’re just stupid. Also,” Spy stretched out the shoulder of Sniper’s shirt. “I see you’ve chosen to arrive via parachute. You look _ridiculous.”_

Yep, this was Spook alright.

Spy retrieved a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket. “You’re lucky I decided to interfere at all.”

“Interfere? Yeah, ‘cause that’s all you bloody spies are good for, right? Sticking your nose into business that isn’t yours, thinking you can meddle with my family in some wild stunt to prove how bloody smart you are.”

Spy lowered his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke. “Need I remind you that if it wasn’t for my meddling you would have no knowledge that your parents were in any danger at all? You’d be blissfully unaware, doing something unspeakable in a jar as your parents were being—”

“Spook, I’m really, really not in the mood for this. I’ve just had to fly halfway across the globe, hop through five different airports, and put up with people asking me stupid questions in a cramped airplane that made we want to kick down the emergency door and hurtle into the ocean. And now here’s you. The dickhead who told me my parents were as good as dead thanks to me, offering no solutions nor — god forbid — an _iota_ of sympathy.”

“Yes, well.” Spy contemplated his cigarette. “That was a test.”

Sniper shot him a look.

Spy shrugged with practiced apathy. “I was always planning on coming here of my own accord. I just thought I’d explain the situation to you that night for the sake of courtesy. I was of two minds if you would actually find a way to sneak out of RED, so, _chapeau, Monsieur Mundy._ You’ve proven to have a brain between your ears.”

Sniper frowned. “Is this some sort of game to you? Why the pretending, huh? You could have told me. We could’ve made it out together with plenty of time to spare. We—”

“Bushman, tell me your plan. You have a plan, don’t you?”

Sniper mentally stumbled over the sudden change in gears. “Um, yes. Of course I do. Head west, follow the trail through Simpson to Alice Springs to lose the scent of any RED agents.” The confidence in Sniper’s voice waned as Spy’s face grew more and more unimpressed. 

“Er, rough it, a bit, if we have to…” Sniper mumbled.

Spy rubbed his temple. “This is just as I thought. That is a terrible idea.”

“How come?”

“Hiding a pair of septuagenarians out in the desert? That’s the best you could come up with?”

Sniper’s face flushed. “Listen mate, I _know_ the outback and the bush, right? RED doesn’t, I do. Do you think they’d be able to survive a day out there?”

“Do you think your parents could?”

Any retorts Sniper could have formed died in his mouth. He gaped like a codfish.

Spy took a drag from his cigarette, then continued, “I mean no offense, Bushman, but your parents haven’t gotten any sprier since you’ve last seen them, and if I may be blunt, neither have you. It’s not a question of if you can lead your parents, but whether they can follow. They’ll get tired, irritated, start asking questions. _Some vacation._ Besides, RED isn’t your typical mafia group. If they’re anything like BLU, they aren’t just a well-funded corporation with a shocking amount of money, giving them access to the deadliest hired killers in the world, but a group that will take any, and I mean _any_ means necessary to tie up loose ends.”

Sniper didn’t speak.

“And back to your earlier point,” Spy said, “I didn’t want you coming with me to Australia because it would have raised suspicions. I have my ways of sneaking out of BLU undetected, but I had no time to ascertain whether you had access to similar methods. I can’t do everything for you. There were only two possibilities, either you’d find a way to meet us here, or I would handle this on my own, unencumbered.”

Sniper was only half listening. He stared at the void between his feet as he tried to figure out what options were left. Sure, he could just give Spy the finger and go ahead with his original plan, but he knew Spy was right. Surely RED wouldn’t give up after a week. And he had no connections, nobody he really knew in Australia outside of his parents.

His lack of response elicited an annoyed huff from Spy. “There’s no need to look so dour. Now that you’ve come to terms with the limits of your intellect—”

“Thanks.”

“—you can recognise the fact that you have me.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow. 

“I have a plan, the minutiae of which we can discuss later. It will require forging paperwork, new IDs — things I know how to do. With your knowledge of the country, and my expertise, I have no reason to believe why we wouldn’t succeed.”

Sniper looked Spy up and down. He waited for the inevitable _‘Gotcha!’_ and laughter at his expense. But, nothing. This was Spy’s acid-dipped version of sincerity. 

Sniper’s features softened. “Spook, I don’t know what to say—”

“Say nothing.” Spy stopped walking. That quiet intensity was back, like that night at the phone booth. “Do not misinterpret my intentions, Bushman. I don’t do favours, I accumulate debts. All this is, is me gaining a very, very big chip I have all intentions of cashing in once this whole ordeal is ever. Don’t forget that. Am I clear?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now—”

“Could I ask a question?”

Spy narrowed his eyes. “One.”

Sniper paused. There was one thing that had been weighing on his mind. One thing he needed to know for sure.

“...Is Leonard your actual—”

_“No of course Leonard isn’t my actual name you half-brained wombat why on Earth would I use my real name?”_

“Can I call you Lenny?” Sniper grinned.

Spy dragged his hand down his face. “If you must. I suppose it’s better than ‘Spook.’ All you have to remember is that I am your colleague, Leonard. I work for RED and organise transportation for the mercenaries between locations, and my department is the one you consulted with in order to assemble your impromptu vacation. My arrival was a surprise arranged by yourself due to my expertise in organising travel and accommodation.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you trust Leonard’s judgment and never contradict him in public. Just agree with everything I say, hm? Don’t make anything up, you’re woeful at improvisation. Leave the talking to me.” Spy looked over his shoulder. “Oh, well that’s convenient.”

Sniper turned. “Shit.”

Mum and Dad had picked up Sniper’s dropped luggage and were just coming back to the spot where he’d left them before he’d bustled off with Spy. 

Sniper speed-walked over. “Sorry, sorry, you shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“It’s alright, love. We just thought we’d save you the trouble,” Mrs Mundy said.

Mr Mundy had Sniper’s duffel bag on his shoulder while Mrs Mundy held Sniper’s rifle case. Sniper gulped.

“We’ll take those, cheers.” Sniper took the duffel bag and case off of the Mundies’ hands.

Sniper finally had the chance to take a proper look at his parents. Time had etched its signature on their features, no doubt co-signed by the brutal Australian sun. Dad had the same long ears, same long face — not much change. Mum was short and plump, and still had that twinkle in her eye like she was about to share a story with you. Time hadn’t so much changed them, but amplified what had always been there.

He got the keen sense that he was being examined too. Sniper wasn’t sure where to look. Did his parents like what they saw?

“Have you been eating enough?” Mrs Mundy blurted.

“Sorry?”

“Your shirt’s bloody huge. You look like an understuffed scarecrow.” 

Sniper tugged at the neck of his shirt. “Er, it’s Demo’s. I realised I didn’t have any proper civvies and…”

Sniper was drowned out by her laugh. Her face crinkled into a smile. “It’s good to have you home, Micky.” She held her arms out for a hug.

Sniper immediately put down his bags and hugged her back.

Mrs Mundy made a surprised _oop!_ at Sniper’s speed. Even though they’d managed to stay in contact for years, there was nothing that could replicate the touch of another person. He wanted to stay like this forever, standing in the tremendous relief that he was here on time, that she was warm and alive in his arms, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held so tightly by another person. 

They separated. Too soon, Sniper thought. But there would be time for that later.

Next was Dad. Sniper and Mr Mundy regarded one another.

“Dad.”

“Mick.” 

They limply shook hands, then let go. 

Silence hung. Conversations with his father were like talking to an alarm clock. You knew it was going to go off at any second, and when it did, it was a head-splitting ache of trying to get your words straight while it was angrily ringing at you. This had only been the pattern of their phone conversations for the last, oh, twenty-odd years.

Instead, his father said, “That’s your saxophone I hope.”

Sniper stared, unsure what to do with this non-sequitur he’d just been handed. His father had a slight glazed look about him, staring through Sniper rather than at him. Jesus christ, was the bastard actually going senile? 

Then Sniper had the sense to look at the grey case behind him. Ah.

“Er, no… It isn’t,” Sniper said. 

“Right, right.” Mr Mundy nudged a pebble with his shoe. No explosion. This was the second time Sniper had braced himself for an argument and gotten nothing. It was like going through the labour of strapping into a parachute only to jump off a sidewalk ledge. 

Still looking at the ground, Mr Mundy opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was died in a series of mumbles as Spy mercifully finished his unhurried walk to the Mundies three. 

“So, I see that we’re all reunited.” The light-toned ‘Leonard’ was back, no cigarette, all smiles and clasped hands sending chills down Sniper’s spine. “Now before we leave, I’m sure Mundy will like to have a look around his home town, we can discuss further details then. Now, if we could just—”

“Oh, goodness. Lachlan, I think she’s run off.” Mrs Mundy looked behind her. “Plane must’ve spooked her.”

Mr Mundy turned his head left and right. “Or she smelt a rabbit.”

“She couldn’t have gone far.” Mrs Mundy put two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle that split the air like a whip.

For a few moments, nothing. Then, they heard the light tinkling of metal. A squat, four-legged shape appeared from behind the plane hangar and trotted towards them. It was a Blue Heeler dog. Spy took the slightest of steps back as the dog obediently sat down in front of Mrs Mundy.

She leaned down and rubbed the sides of the dog’s face. “There you are, Bixby! This is your brother Micky!”

Sniper’s eyes lit up. “Peh—” The name died in his mouth. 

No, this definitely wasn’t his old dog Pepper. He couldn’t believe he nearly let her name slip out. Pepper had a dark patch covering both eyes like a mask, while Bixby only had a black spot over her eye that looked like a jolly splotch of mud.

Pepper was long dead. She’d gone much after Sniper had left. Even Bixby looked on the older side - coat all snowy, body like an overstuffed pillow being held up by stiff wooden rods.

With a restrained smile, he knelt and let Bixby smell his hand. “Hey there.” 

She inquisitively pushed her nose against his hand, investigating for any hidden morsels of food.

Sniper used to hate living here. It felt like time didn’t move. And yet, life had moved on without him, and he’d missed out on so much of it. Bixby, his parents…

“It’s nice to meet you, Bixby.” Sniper scratched the side of Bixby’s face and laughed as she immediately leaned into his hand as her foot hammered the ground.

Yes, he might’ve missed out. But that wouldn’t stop him from enjoying what he had left.

* * *

The door did not open on Miss Pauling’s third time knocking and she didn’t know whether to be nervous or annoyed. She had a nice knock. She’d practiced it. Four sharp individual knocks that were spread-out enough that they wouldn’t intimidate the person on the other side, but authoritative enough to communicate that she wasn’t to be ignored.

She was standing on the porch — veranda, she corrected herself. She’d picked up an Australian phrasebook at the last leg of the plane trip — of the Mundy home. She was sure this was the right address, it was the same one she’d seen dozens of times among the mercenaries’ outgoing mail she had to open, read, and sometimes redact as per company policy. RED Sniper always got ‘to’ and ‘too’ confused, but at least his handwriting was legible, and in english.

Miss Pauling readjusted the straps of her backpack. She’d thought the lost hitchhiker — backpacker, she corrected herself again — schtick would help her get a foot in the door, not leave her standing for five minutes carrying a heavy bag and sweating in her clothes.

It was nice to be out of her uniform at least. She got to wear boots, and actual pants. It’s not that she didn’t like her work attire, she just sometimes wished she could wear something that more accurately reflected the eclectic nature of her responsibilities as the Administrator’s assistant. While the outfit was fine for forging permits and categorising the different blackmail the Administrator had on a staggering amount of governments, it wasn’t as agreeable for cutting up corpses or murdering mercenaries’ parents, for example.

Of all the things Miss Pauling had learnt about the Administrator, it was that she always acted with precise intent. And it was for that reason Miss Pauling knew that her uniform wasn’t an oversight but a feature. The Administrator believed one worked at their best when they were on edge. Not incapacitated, but not comfortable either. It kept you sharp. So, if that meant she had to pick sand out of her nylons at the end of work every day, so be it. Miss Pauling could handle it, which was precisely the reason why only she could do this job.

Miss Pauling looked to the side of the house. The Mundies _had_ to be home, their pick-up — sigh, _ute._ They call them _utes_ here, Pauling — was still parked outside.

She tried the door handle, and with some embarrassment realized the door wasn’t locked.

Not everyone shuts themselves away with obsessive levels of secrecy. This was the countryside, after all. With the reassuring weight of her gun holster under her jacket, she went inside. 

“Excuse me?” she called. 

Miss Pauling scanned her surroundings. Comfy-looking — if a bit old — furniture, a fireplace bookended with two shelves full of books and knickknacks, baskets of bright colourful balls of yarn, and deafening silence.

She stepped into the house, closing the door behind her.

She searched every room, mentally cataloguing the peeling wallpaper, the family portraits of people standing in front of flocks of sheep, even a novelty spoon collection. But still, there was no trace of the Mundies anywhere.

She reached the kitchen at the back of the house and noticed a pile of chewed-up stuffed toys in a corner. Next to the pile was a misshapen ring of discolored wood. 

She dropped her backpack with a thud that shook the whole house, ignoring the rattling of loose ammunition and firearms as she crouched down.

The toys, and the whole corner of the room, were covered in dark fur, and the ring of stained wood were clearly from repeated water damage.

So, the Mundies had a dog. It wasn’t here, and neither was any evidence of a food or water bowl. Why would a family have no water bowl for their pet dog when they lived in the middle of the hot desert outback?

No parents, no dog, and the family pick-up — _UTE!_ — still parked next to the house. 

Miss Pauling dug her nails into her palms. Something felt wrong. Why did she have the uncanny feeling she was late? 

But that wasn’t possible. No one could have known, there weren’t any moles in the company, her bi-monthly employee inspections made sure of that.

She was also alone. She’d given the informant his final paycheck as soon as she’d arrived, and if his relieved demeanor was anything to go off of he was already miles away hitching a ride to Adelaide.

If Miss Pauling found out he had anything to do with this... It wouldn’t matter. The status of her mission would be a stamp permanently branded on her record with a single red word: FAILURE.

She stood up and noticed something outside the kitchen window.

She walked out the backdoor. There, behind the house on the sandy red earth were four indentations of a vehicle that had been immobile for so long that layers of dirt had accumulated on the sides of the wheels. All that was left behind was a set of tire tracks, which lead to the main road where she’d come from.

To Birdsville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been brought to you at break-neck speed by one Schnozzbun. Let's look at some Australianisms:
> 
> [1] Chookie: An affectionate derivative of the word 'chook' which literally means 'chicken.' A friend of mine got called that as a kid by their relatives so I just yoinked that.  
> [2] Old mate: A very aussie way of either referring to a person both people in the conversation know but don't feel a need to identify directly by name, or when referring to a stranger that's nearby. A very relaxed 'you-know-who.'  
> [3] Fairy floss: Cotton-candy!
> 
> And a bonus french term: Apparently _Chapeau!,_ while literally translates to 'Hat!', as an expression it essentially means 'hats-off!' in that old-time way people used to take off their hat when congratulating someone. Seeing that I wanted to make Spy sound sarcastic as possible (and has an established adversarial relationship with Sniper's hat) I thought this was appropriate.
> 
> The 'meet-cute' Demoman recounts about how he met the BLU Soldier was heavily inspired by the fic Rocket's Red Glare by @bigbootyboy. Highly recommended https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548558/chapters/10353846
> 
> Speaking of Demoman, I loved writing him so much and looking up Scottish slang ('Keech' means shit which I thought was quite delightful). However if anyone reading this is Scottish and felt like the syntax or words are a bit off PLEASE DO COMMENT I WOULD LOVE TO TALK TO YOU. Honestly, 50% of the reason I wanted to write this fic was cause I was frustrated about how fics (and even TF2 proper) are off the mark on how Australians actually talk in how they write Sniper (don't get me started on Saxton). So yeah man call me out I'd be super interested.
> 
> I did so much (probably too much) research on how plane travel and airports worked in the '60's. Essentially, it was super relaxed security-wise (no metal detectors, good thing for Sniper and his gun), and actually quite glamorous compared to today. For tone reasons a lot of that was glossed over cause Sniper's kinda Going Through It.
> 
> Spy's line "I don't do favours, I accumulate debts" is lifted from an Ancient Sicilian motto cited at the start of chapter 5 in _Liar's Poker_ by Michael Lewis. As soon as I read it I was like _oh my god, that's Spy._ May this be a lesson in the importance of reading extensively! You'll never know what cool stuff you'll find that may be relevant to the stuff you're working on.
> 
> (Phew) Anyway, the two of us will be taking the slightest of breaks, just because we need to start outlining future chapters until [insert turning point here] and one of us is starting uni again. So hold tight! You'll hear from us eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic is a collab- find us on tumblr:  
> Writers:  
> @schnozzbun-art  
> @longlivetuefort
> 
> Side Editor:   
> @meetthecook
> 
> More to come!


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